


Dude, Where is My Staff?

by NorroenDyrd



Series: Glorious Milk Drinker [4]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: A Night to Remember (quest), Action/Adventure, Ancestor Guardian, Banter, Bromance, Character Development, Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, Family History, First Meetings, Flashbacks, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Insecurity, Jealousy, Loss of Virginity, Love Confessions, Mentions of Rape, Morning After, Near Death Experiences, Questing, Rescue, Rescue Missions, Romance, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff, Romantic Gestures, Self Confidence Issues, Team Bonding, Team Dynamics, Witty Banter, fighting scenes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 05:47:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 67,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5697301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorroenDyrd/pseuds/NorroenDyrd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Torvar of the Companions, who has gotten himself entangled into a rather disastrous drinking game with a stranger called Sam, has finally been reunited with his best friend Athis and Athis' blundering but good-hearted apprentice Sveta. But their adventures are far from over, as Torvar is determined to retrace his steps on that fateful night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
_'Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket,_  
Don't let it fade away...  
Catch a shooting star and put it in your pocket,  
Save it for a rainy day...'  
  
Maybe the song was the girl's favourite; maybe it was the only one she knew; maybe, like many children at her age, she enjoyed annoying the 'grown-ups' - for whichever reason, she started repeating the same words all over again immediately after she finished the last verse. All. The. Goddamn. Way. From. Karthwasten. To. Markarth. Her voice, shrill, high-pitched and very out of tune, clawed at Athis' hearing, making his temples throb. Finally, when the grey outline of the Dwarven city began looming through the pale, pinkish morning mist, he felt that he could stand it no longer. Whirling round on his heels (he had been striding in grim silence a little way ahead of Torvar, Sveta and the girl), he barked hoarsely,  
  
'Will you shut your mouth, you little torturer?!'  
  
The child started, falling silent with a small gulp, and hugged Sveta by the waist, as though seeking her protection, her eyes glistening tearfully from beneath tangled dark-brown bangs. She looked so small and vulnerable that next to her, even little Scrib appeared to be a proper, strong, steadfast Nord woman. Gently petting the child's hair, Sveta knitted her eyebrows and said quietly,  
  
'The little one has seen so much pain and death... has said goodbye to her friends and family... I... I told her to sing to... take her mind off things. Please, Athis. Don't be cross with her. Be cross with me; it was my idea - and I am so, so very sorry it upsets you...'  
  
There was not a shade of reproach in her faint, faltering voice; she was not scolding him for yelling at the girl, not telling him to back off - and yet this gentle plea wounded his long-suffering heart more than any angry outburst from, say, Skjor or Aela. And together with the pain inside his chest, there came a long-forgotten vision - a scrawny, red-haired Dunmeri boy making his way through the ashen wilderness, singing in a trembling, cracking voice, to take his mind off the rumble of hunger in his stomach, off the dull, pulsing pain in his road-weary legs, off the thought that his family was gone and he was all alone now, a tiny speck of dust caught in the scorching wind...  
  
Squatting in front of the girl so that their eyes would be on the same level, Athis reached forward and brushed his fingers gently against her sleeve.  
  
'Hey,' he said hoarsely. 'I didn't mean what I said. It's just...' he forced a small, sheepish laugh, 'You keep singing the same song...'  
  
'I know what the kid can pick for a change of tune,' Torvar cut in brightly. 'You know that song Mikael sings - the bard at the Bannered Mare?'  
  
Athis jerked his shoulder.  
  
'How am I supposed to know? I'm not the one who spends all his free time hugging a mead mug!'  
  
'Well, I'm sure you have other things to hug, my friend,' Torvar grinned teasingly, winking at Sveta. His good-natured chuckle soon trailed off to silence, however - the crimson flush on the whelp's cheeks and the matching angry spark in Athis' eyes wiped the sly expression off his face, and he hurried to return to the subject of singing.  
  
'It used to be good old Ragnar the Red, but after that thing with the watchtower and the Greybeards, Mikael dug up a new song. Sure is pretty catchy. It goes like this...'  
  
Torvar cleared his throat, rested one foot on a nearby rock, rolled up his eyes, clapped his left hand against his chest and began singing, in a very deliberate, solemn manner that made the little girl giggle, her face lighting up,  
  
_'Our hero, our hero_  
Claims a warrior's heart!  
I tell you, I tell you,  
The Dragonborn comes!..'  
  
'I like this song!' the child said, in a shrill, gleeful voice. 'Will you teach me the words, Mister Torvar-Bear?'  
  
This friendly nickname made the big Nord snort into his beard; his eyes narrowed into warm, sapphire-blue crescents, and the crows' feet, surrounding them in a gossamer-like web, grew slightly deeper.  
  
'Of course', he replied generously. 'And upon my honour of word - or whichever way it goes - I will make the little wallflower here join in, too!' here Torvar poked Sveta playfully in the ribs. 'And Sera Grumpy-Pants!' he concluded, after a small pause, giving Athis a quick, pleading look from beneath arched eyebrows, as if trying to ingratiate himself with the elf after his previous tactless joke.  
  
'I thought you had sobered up,' Athis groused as he straightened up and turned away from the other three again. 'I am not going to sing with you'.  
  
'You... You have a very beautiful voice,' Sveta piped in - suddenly, breathlessly, with an odd, wild look in her eyes and a fierce red flame devouring the tips of her ears.  
  
Her little squeak made Athis wheel around again - and start in astonishment. He had often seen her grow petrified and disoriented like that when he spoke to her - especially during her first days in Jorvaskr. He had assumed that she was afraid of him, and had always ended up cursing both the girl and himself because of that supposed fear; it had never occurred to him, not once, that little Scrib was actually... actually enjoying the sound of his voice. That she found it... attractive...  
  
Standing opposite Sveta, sinking into the sparkling winter waters of her eyes, he started singing. The sound was kindled somewhere inside his chest, and as it made its way up his throat, Athis could almost feel the warmth that it carried. When his voice, deep, throbbing, raspy, finally escaped his lips, Sveta lowered her fluttering eyelids and drew a slow, content breath, luxuriating in the velvety caress of the song's first lines - which Athis had given a meaning of his own. A meaning which neither the child, nor Torvar, nor anyone else, would understand - but which he hoped, he prayed to the gods above, his little Scrib would sense. Would appreciate. And perhaps - but he did not dare get too carried away, not after the Karthwasten Hall fiasco - even respond to.  
  
_'Our hero, our hero_  
Claims a warrior's heart...'  
  
As, together with Torvar and the girl, Sveta joined Athis for the second half of the verse, she gave him that precious butterfly smile again - and, his heart rushing, faster than mage fire, towards his mouth and back down into his chest, he mentally swore to himself that one of these days he would (somehow) find a way to properly express what he had concealed within the words of the song...  
  
  
They sang without pausing for breath until they reached Markarth, marching abreast down the paved road like some kind of band of travelling merrymen from old tales. The child was trotting, with a joyful spring in her step, between Torvar and Sveta; both Nords were holding her tightly by the hand and smiling - Torvar's face was on the verge of splitting with a broad, goofy grin, and Sveta's expression made Athis, time and again, stop feeling the earth beneath his feet as he walked at her side, her warm fingers clasped firmly within his. Mother of Roses, it appeared that ever since their little rest in the makeshift dragon bone tent, he was rapidly becoming addicted to her touch.  
  
_'Believe, believe,_  
The Dragonborn comes...'  
  
As far as Athis knew, this mysterious Dragonborn, summoned to High Hrothgar on the day when Irileth and her men took down a dragon and saved the whole of Whiterun, had not yet revealed himself. And judging by meadhall gossip, no one even knew for certain what could possibly single out a Dragonborn among ordinary folk.  
  
Skjor and Vilkas liked imagining him as a giant of a man, clad from head to toe in the bones and scales of vanquished dragons - while Aela scoffed and said that the Dragonborn was surely a woman, a true daughter of Skyrim, with honed battle skills, swift and deadly as lightning, using her bow to bring the great winged beasts down from the sky. From time to time, young Ria the bear hunter voiced an opinion of her own, asking the members of the Circle if the Dragonborn absolutely had to be a Nord ('I mean, he or she could be an Imperial, right?'). And Athis himself listened in on those debates with a faint smirk, imagining those humans' faces, should they learn that the Dragonborn was an elf.  
  
But whoever the fabled Dragonborn really was, whatever skin colour and ear shape he (or possibly she) had, it did not really matter now. All that mattered was the song - loud and triumphant, carrying them forth towards Markarth and turning two grown men and a grown woman (or merely one grown man, as Athis was not that sure about Torvar and Sveta) into carefree, giggling children, peers of the little girl that was skipping playfully at their side...  
  
It could simply be the mist ebbing away and the sun coming out, but Athis could have sworn that the song had made the colours around them appear brighter. The dreary grey rocks now gleamed like precious gemstones, and the scrawny juniper bushes suddenly grew lush and green, and the bronze, sloping roofs of the ancient Dwemer towers burned like fire in the first morning rays. The wilderness was coming alive, wakened by the song that heralded the arrival of a great hero to save the land. Or perhaps - perhaps the song had nothing to do with it. Perhaps it was Sveta's gentle touch; and the soft curve of her flushed cheek, which he could see out of the corner of his eye; and her hair, flowing in the soft breeze, almost brushing against his face; and the sound of her voice merging with his, the two of them growing closer than ever before, even despite the presence of Torvar and the child...  
  
The city gate was manned by a single slouching, drowsy guard, swaying from side to side with his chin resting on the handle of his battle axe, which was stuck in the ground, blade down (apparently, the man had been poking the rimy earth with it to amuse himself). He started at their approach, shuddering like scrib jelly if you poke it with a fork, and, scratching the small of his back, said curtly,  
  
'No lollygagging'.  
  
His voice, gruff and hoarse from lack of sleep, came like a sobering slap in the face. The last echo of song dissolved into the morning stillness, and as a small cloud slid across the face of the sun, the vivid colours faded away again. Letting go of Sveta's hand, Athis kept the gate open for her and the child to pass, leaning against it with his shoulder - and feeling painfully embarrassed. What a fool he had just made of himself! A proud Companion, dancing down the road alongside a ten-year-old girl, singing his head off and grinning at his own foolish, frightfully, sickeningly mushy thoughts?!  
  
'Thank you, Athis,' Sveta breathed softly, glancing at the Dunmer over her shoulder, before she entered the market square.  
  
And Torvar, the poor, confused, flabbergasted Torvar, had to rub his eyes and ruffle his own hair, looking lost and almost helpless. For the familiar angry scowl, which had just begun returning to his friend's face, was once again - Torvar was so bad at numbers... he had already managed to lose count of those bizarre transformations - replaced by a wistful, dreamy smile, which did not go too well with those crimson eyes, and jutting brow ridges, and pronounced cheekbones, and spearhead-sharp, unshaven chin... By the - Torvar wrinkled his forehead, trying to remember what the priests kept preaching about... yes, he was definitely bad at numbers; let's just say Ten to be on the safe side - Athis wasn't in love, was he?  
  
  
***  
  
  
At long last, the four travellers had braved the topmost flight of stone steps. They had been walking in single file, with Athis, once again, striding in front, followed by Sveta, the girl - and finally, by the huffing, sweating, red-faced Torvar. Stopping in front of the Temple's entrance, Athis waited for Sveta to catch up with him, and when she did, gave her a long, intent look, and said, in a very deliberate, almost menacing tone,  
  
'Don't you dare run off and get yourself into a mess again! Now that Torvar's back, I have enough on my plate. You are going inside with the rest of us'.  
  
Sveta gulped. She had feared Athis would say that. But how, how could she possibly find a way to explain to him that the sight of Temple made her feel awkward and out of place, as if she was a speck of dirt on a gleaming, impeccably clean surface? That the very thought of what Dibella's worship stood for, beauty and femininity and... and that other... thing, brought back painful memories... Memories which made her hate herself with an overwhelming, burning, wounding passion. Her mother's daily reminders of how pathetic and worthless she was. And - and the horrible, shameful thing that had happened when she was eighteen years old...  
  
'Please,' she stroked his fingers, gently, fretfully, hoping that her touch might soothe him - and at the same time, feeling terrified by her own boldness. 'Please don't make me'.  
  
Athis' eyebrows made a curious, barely noticeable twitch; but before he could say anything to reply, the two adults were joined by Fjotra. The girl came up to Sveta and took her by the hand, and as their eyes met, the girl's expression made the poor milk-drinker let out a small, frightened yelp.  
  
Fjotra's face was completely blank, mask-like, as if she was sleep-walking; her widened, glassy, unblinking eyes were gleaming brightly with all the colours of a rainbow, as though they had Skyrim's fabled Northern Lights trapped within them. And her voice as she spoke to Sveta, with her iridescent gaze fixed on the flustered grown-up's face, differed from her usual squeaky, high-pitched tone. It sounded somehow... warped. Echoing. As though there was someone else speaking in chorus with her. And the words that she said, loudly, monotonously, making Sveta's flesh crawl, were not words that a child would normally use,  
  
'You must come inside, rescuer of the Sybil. The goddess desires to speak with you and reward you for the courage and resolve that you showed. Come inside, and meet the avatar of Dibella'.  
  
Sveta was so stunned by the sudden change in the child that she made no further protests when Fjotra tugged at her hand and pulled her inside the building, slamming the metal door right in the faces of Athis and Torvar.  
  
The priestesses must have withdrawn into the inner sanctum, for there was no-one to greet the visitors at the entrance - but the girl led the adult across the antechamber with the confidence of someone who had been in the Temple for quite a few times, not pausing for as much as a second to take in her surroundings or check if she was headed in the right direction. Swivelling her head around, Sveta managed to make out (hard as it was with Fjotra constantly pressing forward) the outlines of the tall statues, their hands raised towards the ceiling as though in prayer, their perfect bodies glowing in the pulsing firelight. The sight of these images of the Divine, half-naked, proudly showing their smooth marble-white skin, displaying the flawless curves of their bodyline, set Sveta blushing and stumbling, embarrassed by the statues' nudity and intimidated by their confident, stately beauty - but Fjotra, persistent, tireless, like a tiny boat hauling a clumsy barge down the river, kept dragging the staggering grown-up behind her, right towards the large square stone basin in the chamber's centre. As the two came up to it and peered over the edge into the clear, sparkling water, Fjotra pointed at Sveta's rippling reflection and said, her voice louder than ever before,  
  
'Behold. The avatar of Dibella'.  
  
Sveta peered down, her eyebrows knitted, a deep vertical line creasing the skin between her eyes. The veins in her temples jerking with the mental effort, she tried to figure out what the girl meant. But could not. She did not see any apparition standing between them, no third reflection in the water - just Fjotra, with her glowing eyes and frozen features, and herself. The familiar, terrified, blushing milk-drinker.  
  
Unkempt flaxen hair, with a few barely noticeable streaks of grey. Frightened, liquid-grey eyes. Ugly pale eyelashes. Crackling lips with a fresh scar running across the lower one. Tiny, so hideously un-Nord-like chin. The same face that she saw in the washbasin every morning, her heart contracting at the thought of how awfully plain-looking she was. The same face that had gazed tearfully back at her out of the mirror, years ago, while her mother was holding her by the shoulder and drawing a sarcastic list of her flaws. The same face that she had stared at on that terrible day, sitting on the edge of her bed and holding a small looking glass in her right hand, her left clapped against her mouth, her body still aching, and her heart bleeding as she recollected words of her mother's guest... the young, hard-faced man that had torn into her body, on the sly, on the run, between having a farewell meal and changing into his travel clothes to board a carriage back to Skyrim.  
  
_'Love? If I ever did love someone, it would sure as Oblivion not be a miserable little thing like you. And just so you know, I don't even care about things like that. I don't really need to see a woman's face when I'm getting what I want'._  
  
  
'I... I don't understand...' Sveta said at length, passing the back of her hand across her eyes to wipe off the tears that the memories had brought. 'Where should I look for this... this avatar?'  
  
_'You_ are the avatar of Dibella,' Fjotra replied simply, the flame in her eyes flaring up in a burst of gold and green. 'Just like any other woman. The goddess lives in all of her daughters; all they have to do is embrace her. As a rule, the Divine lets them discover this truth on their own, without her aid. But to you, she chose to speak, for she acknowledges the great service you have done for her Temple. As a reward for your actions, she tells you this...'  
  
The eerie echo that had accompanied Fjotra's speech the entire time now rang so loud and clear that it drowned out the girl's own voice - filling the entire chamber and pulsing inside Sveta's heart.  
  
'You are a flower, Sveta. Your stem has already grown stronger, withstanding the hardships of battle - but the blossom that it carries has yet to unfold. Let the petals spread themselves out and bask in the sun, and let the men and women of Skyrim stand in awe as they watch you bloom in your full glory. Take some water from this blessed basin and wash your face, child of Dibella - as you cleanse yourself in the name of the Divine, all the shame and hatred that you feel towards your body will flow away, and be replaced by love. Let the water wash away the darkness of your memories, let it purge the taint that has turned you into who you are. The neglect and callousness of your mother, who mocked and derided you, refusing to look inside your heart. And the cruelty of the man that claimed you without your consent, looking upon you as a mere instrument to satisfy his base instincts - and showing you disrespect that is an affront to Dibella. Embrace the Divine inside yourself, so that you may understand that you are beautiful'.  
  
The words drummed inside Sveta's swimming, foggy head long after Fjotra fell silent. This was much, much too much to take in; she felt that if she mulled over the goddess' message a second longer, her skull would burst. She was brought back to her senses only by the sound of Torvar's voice at the entrance, a muffled cry from another, distant world,  
  
'Hey, wait, wait! You can't just burst in there! What if she is talking to the goddess?! We can't make a Divine mad, you know!'  
  
This anxious little tirade was followed by a deep, ashy growl,  
  
'Worry about yourself; you are the one that thrashed this place! She has been in here far too long - I have to check on her!'  
  
Athis... Could it be? The unreachable, short-tempered, battle-hardened Athis - was worried about her? Was rushing to rescue his little Scrib from some unknown danger? She did not deserve this... Or what if the voice of Dibella was right and she actually did?..  
  
A little out breath because of the wild flutter of butterflies in her stomach, all her torments forgotten (for the time being), Sveta raised her hand and attempted to wave it at the two men; while the child at her side rubbed her eyes - now back to the normal, aurora-less colour - with her fists and said thickly,  
  
'Ouch. My head hurts'.  
  
Torvar and Athis had barely made a few steps in the basin's direction when the doors of the inner sanctum swung open, and out marched the priestesses. Just as Sveta had imagined them - beautiful, formidable and, more likely than not, completely unforgiving towards the likes of her... Though wait - if what Fjotra had said in her trance was true, it meant that there was no such thing as 'the likes of her'. Every woman was an avatar of Dibella. Even Sveta.  
  
The priestesses' first intention must have been to unleash their righteous wrath on the intruders that had raised the ruckus in the antechamber - but when they saw the little girl, the angry scowls on their faces miraculously melted away into smiles of glee.  
  
'The Sybil!' they chanted in chorus, clapping their hands to their chests and rushing towards the somewhat startled girl, 'The Sybil has come! Praised be Dibella!'  
  
'So... So I really am touched by the gods...' Fjotra muttered to herself, glancing around with a flustered smile as the robed women encircled her, fussing not unlike a flock of hens.  
  
'Come, child,' the oldest priestess declared when the first excitement finally settled down. 'Your preparations must begin immediately... And you - drunken blasphemer!' she glared daggers at Torvar, who bleated out a small laugh. 'You shall come as well. There is your penance to be discussed'.  
  
'You will save me from these ladies if they roast me too long, right, buddy?' Torvar joked weakly, giving Athis one last sheepish look before he was ushered away into the inner sanctum, together with Fjotra, and the priestesses shut the door behind them.  
  
Athis and Sveta were left alone, standing at the side of the basin, in tense, stifling silence.  
  
'Listen...' the Dunmer said after a snail-like minute crawled by; his red eyes were boring into Sveta's and his expression was earnest - anxious almost. 'I... I entered the Temple while the girl was still talking to you... I assume she was channeling Dibella... She - she mentioned something... something about a man'.  
  
Sveta's heart fell. No. Please, no. This could not be happening. Not now - not after what they had been through together. During those past few days, she and Athis had grown closer than she could ever have dreamed. Her head still felt groggy with all the new memories she now had. Her very own precious jewels. She kept them locked inside her heart, taking them out every now and then, like a miser poring over his secret stash to admire the many-coloured light dancing on their polished sides. The warmth of his touch as he held her close. The power of his wrath as, time and time again, he saved her life. The rich, raspy sound of his voice as he told her she could call him by his name. Stunned, inebriated by the gleam of this treasure trove, she even dared to dream that some day he could, perhaps, finish what he had started in Karthwasten Hall... And now, all of this would be over. Her naive, rosy fancies would be scattered like ash in the wind - and he would turn away from her, revolted, the moment he found out that she was... damaged goods.  
  
She froze, unable to move a muscle, as the old memory came flooding in again. The creases of her pillow stifling her, blocking her breath, while a firm, unwavering hand held her down and an alien, violent force scorched her, over and over again, till she could not breathe with the pain and humiliation...  
  
'If I tell you, you will really start to hate me,' she mumbled through thick, torrent-like tears that kept rolling down her cheeks.  
  
'You little s'wit,' he hissed, his face growing pale with anger, 'How dare you distrust me?!'  
  
And then, just as his face floated away into the pearly mist of tears that obscured her sight, his voice softened to the gentle, velvety drawl that had always made her heart sing,  
  
'Please... I am sure that whatever you consider to be your fault, is really his and his alone. I...I... L...' he choked faintly, 'Likely, I will soon become your proper Shield Brother. Tell me. Tell me about the wrong that was done to you, and I will do what I can to make it right'.  
  
There really was something about that voice of his that rendered her completely helpless. Unable to resist. Compelled to do whatever he was telling her. Entranced, mesmerized by the deep, husky sound, she lowered herself onto the basin's edge and began, her eyes cast down, her fingers tearing at the fraying rim of Lash's old shirt,  
  
'He... He came to visit us one d-d-day, a few years b-back. In our family home in B-Bruma. With his grandmother... She... She is sort of my mother's older friend. Mother has always l-looked up to her in everything she does. Getting rich. Making connections. Having people do what she wants... And so...' Sveta swallowed loudly. 'So... M-mother invited them to s-st-st-tay a while... G-grandmother and g-grandson... He had been giving me odd looks from the very first day... And finally, just as they were going back for Skyrim... He...' she buried her face in her hands, feeling the whole worl whirl away, 'He came into my room... And shifted a chair to block the door... And... And he made me lay on the bed... So he... He could...' Were those Athis' arms wrapped round her shoulders? Was it his rough, stubbly cheek rubbing against hers? Were those his fingers running up and down her numb, icy-cold forearms, warming, comforting? She did not know, too overwhelmed by the gripping, sickening feeling that was spreading from the pit of her stomach, making her blood run cold and sluggish through her limp body. It took her great effort to finish speaking - greater than any strain of her poor aching muscles in battle,  
  
'I was so scared... I could not move... When he was finished, I asked him if he had done this because he loved me, because he thought I was beautiful - and he... he laughed in my face and said that he would never... never love a miserable little thing like me...'  
  
The two strong, wiry arms gripped her tighter, not letting her slip away into the darkness that was ready to consume her; she could feel something warm and soft touch the top of her head. It took her a while to realize what it was - but when she did, she tore her wet, clammy fingers away from her face and looked up into the two shimmering crimson eyes that were gazing down at her. Without a shade of disdain. Of disgust. Of hatred.  
  
'You... You will not push me away?' she mouthed, stretching her quivering fingers forward and stroking Athis' chest as if though to check if he was real; if he was still there, by her side. 'Now that... Now that you know...'  
  
'Azura's breath, why must you be so stupid?' Athis whispered softly as he repeated his kiss, pressing his lips against Sveta's burning, sweat-filmed forehead.  
  
This... This made it the third time he had kissed her. So - so he did not mind her confession... It had not made him detest her, mock her, shun her; on the contrary, he... he seemed to be feeling... sympathetic. She had never expected him to - him always being so strict, so harsh... It was almost as if - as if he cared for her...  
  
'B'vek, girl, you look as if you were stung by a swarm of flesh-flies!' Athis exclaimed, making Sveta's thoughts scatter off - like tiny, frightened fish, dashing away from a stone that had been thrown into their pond. 'The girl told you to wash your face, didn't she? Don't just sit there - do it!..'  
  
After a moment's pause, he lowered his voice and added, his pointy ears turning a rich, vivid purple,  
  
'Let me help you'.  
  
Letting go of Sveta, Athis shifted aside a little, reached down towards the basin and, with a gentle, barely audible plop, plunged his cupped hands deep into the still water. Then, he splashed the clear, cold droplets onto Sveta's face and slid his fingers back and forth along the puffed up folds beneath her eyes. But halfway through the second circle, he froze, struck by a sudden thought, jerked his hands away and asked, somewhat awkwardly,  
  
'You... You don't mind a man's touch - after what happened? I swear I would never...'  
  
Sveta shook her head. The water from the basin had refreshed her a little, dissolving the oppressive haze and, somehow, making her feel more confident. More prepared to be frank, to share her thoughts and... and feelings.  
  
'He was nothing like you,' she whispered, taking his hand into hers and gently pulling it towards her face again. By the gods, Dibella's magic seemed to be working... But a few hours ago, she would not have dared to say what she was about to say. 'His touch made me feel small and helpless... Yours... Yours makes me feel safe. Content... Happy...'  
  
Athis' angular eyebrows soared upwards like a gull's wings, and his lips parted in an unexpected, boyish grin; scooping up more water, he threw it at Sveta - this time boldly, playfully, making her snort and rub her eyes, laughing. Shaking her head so her wet hair danced in front of her eyes, she, too, leaned down and splashed back at Athis; he fought her off with the courage befitting a Companion, this time showering her with a real torrent. The water's soothing caress filled Sveta's chest with a new, unfamiliar, invigorating feeling, as though Athis was splashing at her with morning sunlight made liquid. The dark memories were fading away, washed off her heart just like the traces of tears were washed off her face, and the words of the Divine were suddenly beginning to make sense. She was beautiful. Well, fine, not as beautiful as the great queens you hear about in bards' songs - but not as disgusting as she had always considered herself. She was not entirely worthless - neither as a warrior, nor as a woman. By the gods, there had to be something in that water...  
  
***  
  
'Who are you, oh strangely happy Dunmer, and what have you done with my friend Athis?!' Torvar bellowed in mock despair, freezing on the threshold of the inner sanctum and throwing his arms up into the air.  
  
Athis leapt back from the basin and hurried to wipe the water off his flushed face; he ended up smearing his war paint, which set him hissing and cursing in frustration - which seemed to calm Torvar down a little.  
  
'What did the priestesses say?' Sveta asked, a bit too eagerly, also trying to draw as far away from the basin as possible.  
  
'I have been forgiven,' Torvar said, beaming. 'And they told me what I had been saying while I was drunk.  
  
'Well, that must have been quite a revelation,' Athis groused.  
  
'Nah, not really,' Torvar said, with a small - rather regretful - sigh. 'They said that most of it'd been slurred - but they'd made out something about Rorikstead. So I guess that's gonna be my next stop. Is there,' he raised his eyebrows and spread his lips apart in a pleading grin, which gave his mouth an almost perfectly rectangular shape, 'Is there a chance you two could help me retrace my steps?'  
  
'I have every intention to do so,' Athis said with grim determination. 'Who knows what kind of mess you got yourself into? And - and I will be immensely grateful if Sveta joins me'.  
  
'What exactly is going on between you guys?' Torvar asked, frowning.  
  
'Nothing that either of us should be ashamed of,' Athis snapped, repeating the words which the dying Sybil had said to him in the very Temple - and which, after the turmoil of the past few days, he was steadily finding himself more and more inclined to agree with.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Apart from useful information on Torvar's whereabouts, the people of Karthwasten had also rewarded Athis and Sveta with a small sum of gold. It turned out more than enough to pay the local carriage driver, on his way from Markarth to Whiterun, so he would let the three of them hitch a ride, and to buy snacks for the road (no matter how insistently some shabbily dressed street merchant tried to convince them that the only food they needed was 'raw, juicy, delicious meat', they settled on getting some bread and cheese at the inn).  
  
Sveta decided to get down to her snack when the carriage was already coming in sight of Rorikstead - before that, she had been gazing out at the wilderness, as she was so fond of doing while on the road. As she nestled on the wooden seat next to Athis, tucking her hair behind her ears so it would not get into her mouth and then placing her hand on her stomach, trying to stifle its loud hungry gurgle, the Dunmer leaned close to her and, after making sure that neither Torvar nor the driver were listening, spoke to her in a stifled undertone. He had been meaning to ask that question during the entire drive - but could not bring himself to disrupt her blissful contemplation.  
  
'You said he was from Skyrim, didn't you?'  
  
'Who?' Sveta asked blankly, lowering her sandwich onto her lap.  
  
'The... The man who abused you. You said he was from Skyrim,' Athis persisted, the familiar, terrifying red-gold spark lighting up in his eyes. 'What is his name?'  
  
Sveta's eyes rounded to two enormous silver orbs.  
  
'Please don't ask me that!' she blurted out. 'His family is very powerful; I heard Mother say once that they have connections with both the Thieves' Guild and the Dark Brotherhood. If... If you try to do something to him - they will have you killed!'  
  
'A powerful family...' Athis mused slowly. 'Led by that grandmother you mentioned, I presume? Well, that is enough for me to go on; there are not that many great clans in this province'.  
  
'No,' Sveta choked, dropping her sandwich onto the carriage's the grimy floor - and paying absolutely no heed to the tragic fate of her lunch. 'You can't put yourself into danger like that! I remember him saying to Mother at the dinner table, as he was boasting how well-connected his family was, "Help us, and you will end up rich. Cross us, and you will end up a memory..."  
  
Athis smiled - a grave, dark smile that made Sveta huddle up fearfully in her seat.  
  
'I will see that n'wah try and make me become a memory... But even if I do...'  
  
He moved his hand in the direction of Sveta's chest - but before he could give a coherent shape to the thought that was forming inside his mind (something about hoping to live on in Sveta's heart), he was interrupted by a small, very indignant figure that came running towards the carriage from the approaching hamlet. It was a Redguard, wearing simple, coarse, soiled clothes and a small cap on his head; judging by his expression, he would have leapt aboard the carriage and torn into the travellers' throats - if he wasn't so out of breath.  
  
'You!' he shrieked, pointing a shaking finger at Torvar. 'You have a lot of nerve, showing your face in here again! After what you did to Gleda!'


	2. Chapter 2

Shaking his head from side to side to show his bewilderment and a slight hint of exasperation, old Bill snorted loudly and stretched his neck to chew at a small tuft of dry grass on the roadside. His warm, dark-brown eyes, beneath bushy, reddish eyelashes, were calm and indifferent. As a young colt, he would have probably bolted at the sight of the two-legged creature leaping frantically up and down at the carriage's side, with wild cries and a lot of needless limb-waving - but not now. Not after he had worked for so many years taking goods and fares from one end of Skyrim to another.   
  
He had seen bandits, and giant spiders, and wisp mothers, and, a few times over the past couple of months, even the great winged shadows gliding somewhere behind the veil of swirling clouds. He had endured blizzards; and hailstorms, when the sky was plummeting chunks of ice the size of a chicken’s egg; and lashing, whip-like rain - and most importantly of all, the never-ending, slurred speeches on the meaning of life that his master like giving him when drunk. The huffing and rambling of the frenzied farmer, as he was watching the travellers get off the carriage, mattered about as much to Bill as the flies that were crawling up and down his face. In fact, the flies mattered more - because this time of year, they were beginning to bite, and that was quite unpleasant.   
  
Although... Well, yes - old Bill would have been a bit upset if the mad little two-legged did something to the she-human. She was a good sort, that skinny slip of a creature; she had given Bill half of her little bread loaf - and a deliciously crunchy carrot, too. She had smiled at him as he was picking the food off her outstretched hands with his large, wet, hairy lips - and while one of her companions, a lean, bearded elf, was haggling with Bill's master over the fare, she had talked to the old horse a little, asking him if he was tired after all that carriage-driving and if the two-legged were treating him well.   
  
She had this soft, gentle look in her eyes - reminded Bill a little of a white-maned mare he had known once, back when he lived at a stable. You would have to search really hard to find a meeker beast than that old girl. The stablemaster always kept her close to his wildest stallion; even though his sleek, glossy coat was jet-black, the two-legged called him Grey-Skin - they said he had a Dark Elf's temper. Why, it had taken Bill less than a week to lose count of the times his flighty neighbour had thrown off a rider. That little mare was the only one who managed to keep the stallion in check. She influenced him somehow; next to her, he grew calmer, more obedient - he even allowed humans to stroke his neck without slanting his eye and snapping and kicking at them. But he did try to bite those of the two-legged wanted as much as to pet the little mare...  
  
Completely losing himself in his memories, old Bill stopped paying heed to what was happening around him - and had to let out an indignant neigh when his master tugged at the reins and said,  
  
'Come on, boy. Let's get outta here and be done with these crazy folks'.  
  
  
***  
  
  
'Whoah - easy, easy, buddy!'   
  
Now that the driver had set them down and taken off, the adventuring trio found themselves completely and utterly at the enraged Redguard's mercy. He seemed to have finally caught his breath, for, after a few seconds of glaring, he pounced at Torvar, with his face twisting into an almost inhuman snarl and his fists clenched tightly,  - but before his knuckles could fulfill their burning desire to meet the big Nord's nose, Torvar grabbed the Redguard by the wrist and held him in his grasp until the poor fellow cast down his eyes and drew a shuddering sigh, clearly admitting that he was no match for a (semi) trained (kinda) professional warrior (not really) upholding the honour of the Companions.  
  
'Sorry I had to be rough like that,' Torvar smiled apologetically, letting go of the farmer. 'Can we talk it out? I swear I don't remember a thing about the night when I was here. If I did something wrong...'  
  
'Wrong?!' the Redguard echoed shrilly. 'Wrong?! Why, you... you miserable drunk! You kidnapped my Gleda and sold her to a giant! Do you know what it's been like, sitting here helplessly and knowing that she is out there, alone and afraid?!'  
  
For a few seconds, the little group stood petrified, unable to utter a word, and in the dumbfounded silence one could almost hear the soft squelch of the thought sinking in. Torvar - the harmless, good-natured, ever-tipsy Torvar - had raided the tiny hamlet of Rorikstead like a bandit, taken some poor innocent villager hostage and left her at the mercy of a monster from the wilds; all of this under the influence of some shifty stranger's vile concoction... Athis suddenly found himself missing the good old days when all he had to do was drag Torvar back home from the meadery in the small hours of the morning and the worst thing that could possibly happen was the hapless Nord vomiting a few times.  
  
'Oh dear,' Sveta muttered at long last, grasping at the collar of the long-suffering borrowed shirt she was still wearing. 'This... This mess is messier than I thought...'  
  
'What else would you expect from that blundering alehead?' Athis said through his teeth, boring his eyes into Torvar till the poor Nord's face grew red and glistening like a fresh tomato washed by morning dew. 'We'd better get moving. If the giant did something to that peasant girl while you were recovering from your hang-over, it is going to be entirely your fault. Where did you last see the creature?' he turned to the farmer, drawing his sword. Torvar, still sweating in embarrassment, hurried to mimic his friend's gesture and bared the axe that Athis had thoughtfully looted for him in the Forsworn redoubt.  
  
'Just over those hills,' the Redguard waved his hand vaguely in the general direction of the wilderness. 'Blundering about, club on the shoulder - making the folks over here afraid of straying too far from the village! And Gleda is no peasant girl; to call her that would be an insult,' his eyes lit up and his voice, though still high-pitched, changed its tone, turning from enraged, almost hysterical, to fervently solemn. 'She is the jewel of Rorikstead! My... my prize-winning goat!'  
  
Torvar's eyes came dangerously close to leaping from their sockets. He froze for a moment, leaning forward, his mouth half-open in astonishment - and then slapped himself on the knee and let out a deafening guffaw.  
  
'I... I stole a goat?' he choked, his beard shaking and rippling with laughter. 'I got so drunk that I stole a goat and sold it to a giant?! And here I was, thinking it was a person! A goat! Bahaha, what a story it is going to make!'  
  
'It is still a crime,' Athis interrupted him coldly. 'You had no right to take that goat - by the Three, I can't believe I'm saying this! Rest assured, sera, we are getting your property back,' he gave the farmer a curt bow and motioned the little group to get a move on. One after the other, the three Companions marched off into the copper-tinted hills, swivelling their heads in search of any signs of a bulky, towering figure, with long, gnarled limbs, a shaggy beard and perhaps a captured goat thrown over the shoulder.  
  
They did not wander off too far, however, when they found their way blocked once again - this time, by a ruddy-cheeked, wide-eyed Nord lad in a patched green vest and sagging, oversized, mud-splattered trousers held in place by a fraying belt. In his right hand, the youth held an old, rusty, dull-edged blade, grasping at it awkwardly below the hilt; his left, he waved vigorously in greeting when Athis, Sveta and Torvar came close enough.  
  
'Hello there!' he called out; even though his chin already boasted quite a thick stubble, his voice was still boyish, shrill with excitement. 'I heard you talking to Ennis - he gets very... loud whenever he mentions Gleda. I heard some drunk stole her from him...' Torvar made a wheezing, half-strangled sound, which the lad, thankfully, ignored, talking on and on without pausing for breath, 'You are going to get her back, aren't you?  I can help you - I know where Grok has made camp!'  
  
'Grok?' Torvar echoed, a bit puzzled - and more than happy to change the subject to something other than goat-nabbing drunks.  
  
'That's what I call him,' the younger Nord explained readily. 'Because of those grunting noises he makes. And besides... If something has a name, you aren't that afraid of it...'  
  
While saying those last words, he flushed an even richer pink; the sight of his flustered, beaming face brought a small smile to Sveta's lips - and as Athis watched them part, ever so slightly, barely exposing the glistening tips of her teeth, he felt as if a spear had been shoved right through his stomach. A spear that was coated in poison.  
  
'Playing tracker, are we?' he asked, curling his lips in disdain. 'Hunting the big scary giant?'  
  
The lad puffed out his chest.  
  
'As a matter of fact, I am,' he said solemnly. 'Everyone's been so nervous lately, what with that huge monster wandering about - and I thought that slaying him would become my first feat! I want to be a warrior - a sellsword; but my father won't let me. He says I should stay put and tend the farm...'  
  
'Sound advice,' Athis remarked acidly, his eyes darting from the lad's face to Sveta's. By the Three, she.. she actually seemed interested in that boy's ramblings!.. He had to clench his fists slightly as all those innards packed up inside his body twisted themselves into a single painful knot.  
  
In the meanwhile, the lad went on chattering,   
  
'So I need to do something really, really heroic to make him change his mind. I took his old sword - he used to be a soldier, see - and have been patrolling the outskirts of Rorikstead ever since!'  
  
'That is very brave of you,' Sveta said quietly, and then added, with an apologetic cough, 'But you... Not that I am criticizing... I just... You should probably know that you are holding your sword the wrong way. Your fingers should be closed round the hilt'.  
  
Athis felt blood rushing away from his face and hands. If Sveta got it into her stupid little head that she had to show the pup how it is done... If she touched him... Athis feared that in that case, he would lose control over himself and do something that both he and that unbearably gregarious human boy would later regret.  
  
But thankfully, the lad figured out how to hold the sword on his own, giggling at his clumsiness; this made Athis simmer down a little. B'vek, what was wrong with him?! He had never felt so infuriated when Sveta was talking to Torvar, or any other man, for than matter!..  
  
Ah, but they did not count; his big Nord friend appeared to look upon her merely as a child that Athis was mentoring - and most other males intimidated Sveta too much for her to start a real conversation with them. But this one - he was just as blundering and inexperienced as little Scrib, if not more so; next to him, she would never feel like a worthless whelp. He would never scoff at her, never lose his temper over something she had done wrong - perhaps, he would even become the first person to look up to her. And he was young, too; about Sveta's age, by the looks of him. None, none of this could not be said about Athis. He had a very vague idea of how humans aged, except that it happened frightfully, unnaturally fast - but he had lived through enough to feel that if he had been a Nord, he would already be hunched and withered. A cranky old man with no idea how to deal with the overflowing feelings lapping against the inside of his chest... This boy was completely, utterly unlike Athis - no wonder Sveta was taking a liking to him.  
  
Suddenly overwhelmed by a sickening sensation of his inferiority, Athis stumbled after the eager wilderness guide as if in a dream - a nightmare - and through the icy-cold haze that enveloped him, the voices of Sveta and the boy came tearing like daggers, every sound, every carefree, innocent word sinking deep into the Dunmer's poor, tormented heart...  
  
 _'So - you free are real warriors, right? This is so exciting for me! I have never travelled side by side with the likes of you!'_  
  
'Oh, we are with the Companions... Well, actually, Athis and Torvar are; I am just an apprentice...'  
  
'The Companions?! Shor's bones, it's such a tremendous honour!'  
  
'It is, isn't it? I still can't believe I am this close to being accepted into their ranks!'  
  
'You are so lucky!.. So... Let me get your names straight: this is Torvar, and this is Athis - and you, fair one, are...'  
  
'Sveta. You don't really have to call me "fair one"...'  
  
'It's something I heard in bards' stories. I think it's a great expression! Oh, and my name is Erik!'  
  
  
***  
  
  
Quite surprisingly (in Athis' eyes, at least), young Erik proved to be a decent giant-tracker. After making a few loops among the hills, he finally led the three Companions out into a small clearing where 'Grok' sat, resting his chin thoughtfully on his enormous, rock-like fist and staring at the tiny hairy animal that was grazing in front of him. As this serene little scene opened in front of him, Torvar found himself unable to hold back a huge sigh of relief. Thank the gods the goat was alive! Sure, that was a very weird thing to thank the gods for - but good Ennis' reaction to his precious Gleda being eaten would have surely rivalled the wrath of a Daedra Lord.  
  
The sudden noise made the giant look up - and when his sharp, beady eyes met Torvar's, they lit up with a flash of anger; slowly, wheezing and snorting, Grok straightened himself up, and as his long, dark shadow fell on the four puny creatures that stood huddled together in front of him, both Sveta and Erik whimpered faintly. Seated in the dry grass and watching over the goat, the giant had not looked too menacing - but now, with his bulbous head almost touching the sky and his greyish chest heaving steadily, he was more than living up to the reputation of a monster terrorizing an entire village (even though he was unarmed, his club still remaining strapped to the belt of the tattered, skirt-like fur garment he was wearing).  
  
'Darnit... The big fella doesn't seem to have very fond memories of me, does he?' Torvar mumbled, backing off a few paces and strengthening his grip on his axe's handle. Grok, in turn, kept advancing, letting out short, loud, guttural growls and drawing odd circle-like shapes in the air with his large, thick-veined hands.   
  
Seeing the giant draw ever closer, Sveta made an instinctive attempt to hide behind Athis' back. Oh, so now she remembered that he existed? Wasn't seeking the protection of her new best friend, was she? Breathing heavily through his nostrils, Athis stepped aside, pushing Sveta away from him; startled, taken aback, she remained rooted to one spot, right in Grok's path, her widened, shimmering eyes following the his every movement.   
  
After a few moments, however, the look on her face grew less terrified; she chewed at the scar on her lower lip, frowning slightly, as through deciphering the meaning behind the giant's grunts and wild gestures.  
  
'Uhm... I don't think Grok is attacking us...' she said at last. 'He... He looks like he is trying to tell Torvar that he cheated him...That Gleda is too small for him to eat or skin and he doesn't know what to do with her...'  
  
'Really?' the big Nord asked as he stumbled sideways to evade yet another sweep of the giant's arms. 'How d'you know that?'  
  
'All of Kynareth's creations speak a tongue of their own,' Sveta replied. 'If you look and listen close enough, you will understand what they are saying...'   
  
At this point, Grok let out a particularly fierce roar, shaking his fist over his head. Gleda, seemed to have gotten used to him since her kidnapping, did not pay this sound too much heed - in fact, she folded her legs beneath her stomach and slowly began dozing off, moving her jaw phlegmatically from side to side. In the meanwhile, Sveta swallowed a small lump in her throat and mumbled falteringly, 'M-m-maybe... Just m-m-maybe... We could take the goat off Grok's hands and g-go away?'  
  
'No!' Erik protested, his eyes rounding. 'I - I mean, we have to battle this creature! To save the people of Rorikstead! Come on! Huzzah!'  
  
With this shrill battlecry, the lad charged forward, brandishing his sword. The dull blade barely scratched the giant's thigh - but as the good old folk saying goes, it is the thought that counts. Enraged by the insolence of the creature that had dared to interrupt his monologue, Grok huffed loudly and, grabbing Erik as a child grabs a toy, lifted him into the air and gave him a violent shake, his gnarled fingers closing tighter and tighter by the second, till the three Companions down below could almost hear the cracking of the poor lad's ribs.  
  
Torvar and Athis had immediately charged to the rescue - but as Grok was not only squeezing at Erik, but also stomping his feet angrily, it took them a while to find proper aim. For the first few moments, they just stood side by side, swaying as the ground beneath their feet quaked and rumbled, and choking on dense, smothering dust that blocked their noses and creaked against their teeth. At long last, the billowing cloud settled down, and Athis was able to slice at the knotted, bulging, bluish-purple veins beneath the giant's knees. With a deafening bawl of pain, Grok let go of Erik and sank down to the ground, rivulets of sweat running down his bare chest. Sveta, who had been looking on at the fight with horrified tears in her eyes, rushed towards the injured giant, her hand stretched forward pleadingly.  
  
'Wait!' she squeaked, mouse-like. 'Maybe we can still work it out... Before it goes to far... I wouldn't want anyone to die... Because of a stolen...'  
  
Before she could say 'goat', Grok reached for his club and aimed a swing at her - though clumsy and much weaker than it could have been, it still knocked her off-balance, and she tumbled down to her knees at the giant's side. The second strike hit her square in the chest, so hard that the pain of the impact made her screw up her eyes bite into her lips, drawing blood. The third would have surely fractured her tiny, frail skull - but just as the giant raised his bulky weapon to finish Sveta off, Athis sank his sword deep into the flesh of his log-thick arm.   
  
As the wound set loose a slurping, dark-red torrent, the Dunmer's lips twitched slightly. He had saved Scrib's life yet again. Athis the inferior, Athis the worthless, Athis the odd one out had proven himself useful.   
  
Where was her pretty little Nord boy now, huh? Lying on the ground, face up, groaning in pain - while the cranky old grey-skin was doing all the hero work! He would like to see that pink-faced n'wah do what he, Athis, had done for Sveta! Trotting through the hills by her side, smiling at her and calling her 'fair one' was all well and good - but was the boy ready to swim through rivers of blood? To burn entire campfuls of bandits alive? To defeat foe after foe, with the strongest, the most unyielding being his own stubborn pride? All because... because he had been cursed - and blessed - with that strange, unfamiliar, overpowering feeling? Because, no matter how desperately he had struggled against it, fearing for his reputation, terrified of making a fool of himself - he had managed to fall insanely, boyishly, ecstatically in love?  
  
Breathless, deafened by the pounding in his ears, drunk with the smell of blood, Athis carved each of those mental question marks deep into the giant's flesh, till he could no longer feel his arm. He was brought back to reality by the sound of Torvar's voice,  
  
'Er... Buddy... I think you've killed him'.  
  
Gasping as if he had just emerged from underwater, Athis turned away from the mangled mound of flesh that had once been the giant. His chest, stomach and arms were caked in dark, gooey blood, and there was sharp pain coiling inside his temples like prickly trama tendrils. He glanced around in search of Sveta, his heart turning into a proud, soaring bird at the thought of the look she would have in her eyes... Now that he had shown her what he was capable of. Now that he had reminded her that he would turn mountains for her. Now that he had proved that the little Nord boy was nothing, nothing - a pathetic wretch! - compared to him... But when he finally caught sight of Sveta, the bird that had spread its wings inside his chest came plummeting down and crumbled away into a handful of bent, broken feathers.   
  
The ungrateful Scrib was squatting at Erik's side, her hands glowing faintly with a healing spell - while Gleda the goat, who had just woken up from her nap and did not seem to care too much about her new owner being slain, was standing close by and chewing slowly at Scrib's hair.  
  
'What do you think you are doing?!' Athis roared, racing up to Sveta. Damn that girl, had she even seen him kill the giant? Or was she too busy cooing over that farmboy?   
  
Deep, deep down, he knew that it was wrong, dishonourable, to feel so much ire towards someone who had just been wounded in battle - but he could not contain himself. The longer he looked at Erik's pallid, twisted face, with a thin, slightly curvy red line snaking out of the corner of his mouth and disappearing in his boyish copper stubble - the more he wanted to finish the dead giant's work. He cherished the memory of Sveta's gentle healing touch, of her fingers hovering inches away from his bare skin, brushing against it and then fluttering up again - and at the thought that this treasure was now shared by another, his blood began to boil.   
  
She looked up at him, her expression both bewildered and just the slightest bit fearful.  
  
'I... I think Grok broke a few of Erik's ribs. I am doing my best to ease his pain'.  
  
Oh, so she had no trouble calling that pup by his name? Athis had had to downright force her to abandon that exasperating habit of addressing him as 's-s-sera'!  
  
'He would have been fine if he hadn't aggravated that giant,' Athis hissed contemptuously. 'The s'wit should be thankful that Torvar and I didn't leave him to be squashed like a melon! Would have served him right!'  
  
Erik let out a faint groan; Sveta leaned closer to him, half-closing her eyes in an effort to make her spell as powerful as possible.  
  
'Please don't be like that,' she said, raising her voice over the tingle of the healing magic. Her tone was even, with barely a trace of her usual stammer - and that was precisely what made Athis' heart contract in apprehension. 'Erik acted foolishly, and it hurts me to think that what he did led to bloodshed. But right now, his wounds are all that matters. It may be his own fault, or it may not - but he is in pain. He needs me. To let him suffer as punishment would have been very, very unkind... And besides,' she added, smiling, 'All he really wanted was to show us - especially you and Torvar - what he could do. He wanted to prove that he could be a proper warrior. Surely, you would understand?'  
  
'Don't you dare put me on the same level with this n'wah!' Athis screamed, finally letting the rage within him burst through. It flowed in a scorching, fiery torrent, like the lava that still keeps gushing out of the Red Mountain's jagged maw in every Dunmer's nightmares; it swept him off and carried him in his wake, powerful, unstoppable, overwhelming. 'Don't you dare patronize me! Reprimand me! Reproach me with your little hints! You have known this wimp for less than an hour - and he already matters to you more than I do! After did so much to keep you from harm, to make you stronger! After I let you know that I... that I care for you! Well, fine - stay here! With him! Drool over him, poke his wounds! Torvar and I are going back to Rorikstead! Without you!'  
  
The big Nord opened and closed his mouth a few times, looking rather like a flabbergasted fish - perhaps, he was trying to squeeze an objection out of himself. But before storming off, Athis gave him a glare that made him gulp down any words that were about to leave his mouth; with one last, silent, apologetic look at Sveta and Erik, Torvar grabbed Gleda by the horns and trudged after his friend. His bulky, hunched figure, outlined darkly against the bronze-shaded hills, with the goat - a tiny, fuzzy silhouette - prancing at his side, looked both comical and melancholy. Shivering silently, Sveta watched Torvar's back grow smaller and smaller - until the tears welling up in her eyes began to sting too much; when she blinked them off, the Nord and the goat had already vanished into the wilderness.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Little by little, the pain in Erik's poor bruised ribs grew duller, and the worl around him came sliding back into focus.   
  
'Thank you,' he wheezed, pushing himself into a sitting position and grabbing at Sveta's shoulder for support.  
  
She nodded weakly and said in a quiet, dull voice,  
  
'If you can walk, we may go back to Rorikstead'.  
  
She looked as if she was very upset about something - could be the rant of that crazy Dunmer, Athis... In between fits of pain, Erik had vaguely registered something yell-like; for some reason, the elf seemed to be upset about Sveta's healing him. He supposed he had to comfort her... He had no idea how; it was not like upset girls grew on trees in there parts (now, that would have been a sight, he thought, quite in spite of himself). But she had treated his ribs, so he owed her a favour, and, as far as stories went, comforting pretty girls - no, those were not the words a bard would use - soothing fair damsels in distress was kind of mighty-warrior-style... He could, erm, pat her on the shoulder, or prod her in the ribs, or ruffle her hair, like his father had done to him when he was a boy?   
  
Ah, no matter; maybe she could find a way to un-upset herself without him - he had other things to concern himself with. Like being miserable and frustrated. That giant was supposed to have been his first kill! His heroic feat! His great adventure side by side with real, flesh-and-blood Companions! He was supposed to cut off his ugly head, and throw it down on the counter at his father's inn!..  
  
'I don't wanna go back to Rorikstead,' Erik said sulkily. 'Whatever am I going to tell Father? I wanna stay here and find another wilderness creature to slay!'  
  
Sveta rubbed her temples.  
  
'Erik...' she said shakily, 'I am really, really sorry... But can we please... not argue? It's just... I have too much on my mind... I feel sorry for the giant, and for you, and for Athis, because I have hurt him, even though I didn't mean to... It was all such a terrible misunderstanding... All I wanted was to make a new friend... Because I haven't had a lot of friends, and you... seemed a bit... a bit like me, only braver...'  
  
She said a lot more, but as her voice kept getting quieter and quieter, there soon came a point when Erik was no longer able to piece together the weeping noises that she was making. And when he strained his hearing to try and make out the 'damsel"s words, still confused as to what he should do to make her speak normally again, he realized that her gasping sobs had been joined by another sound. The faint rustle of the dry grass.  
  
Erik whirled around - and let out a startled scream, the loudest and shrillest in the history of startled screaming; halfway through it, he tried to turn the sound into a battlecry, but the effect was not too convincing. Approaching him and Sveta, their furry bellies almost scraping the ground, their strong, muscled paws gathered up like springs, ready for a deadly pounce, there were three sabre cats. Now, this was his chance to make up for that failed battle with the giant - or... or to be torn to shreds.  
  
  
***  
  
  
The silence was broken only by Gleda's indignant blah-blahs - she did not seem to be too eager about having her horns pulled at. And as far as Torvar was concerned, the blah-blahs didn't really count; the silence pressed at him, smothered him, pushed him down to the ground, as though he had a couple of mountains piled up on his shoulders. At long last, he felt that if he did not do something about that silence, his skull would burst. And he knew that in order to make the silence clear away, he had to tackle its source. Athis. That elf, marching a perfectly straight line in front of Torvar, with his fists clenched and his lips pursed - why, he had the silence brewing inside of him like mead in a vat!  
  
When they were crossing one of those small wilderness creeks that can be found all over Whiterun Hold, Torvar finally plucked up courage to take action. Letting go of Gleda, he grabbed Athis from behind and before the elf could realize what was going on, forced him to his knees and pushed his head under the water.  
  
'What the- ?' Athis spluttered, jerking his head up and struggling to eel out of the Nord's grasp.  
  
'Remember all those times I got drunk, and you stuffed my head into a bucket of icy water?' Torvar asked breathlessly, closing his arms tighter and tighter round Athis, despite all of his wriggling and shoving and kicking. 'Well, now it's your turn, buddy. You got drunk back there. Drunk on your own Dark Elf blood'.   
  
Athis stopped struggling, and the angry flash in his eyes was slowly replaced by an earnest, slightly guilty look. Seeing that the Dunmer had calmed down, Torvar let go of him; the two sat side by side on a large stone overhanging the creek, and the louder and more vehemently the big Nord spoke, the thicker his friend's eyes filmed over with something wet and gleaming and suspiciously tear-like.  
  
'Did you even listen to yourself talking? You sounded as if you were straight from the Quivering Isles! Or was it Jelly Islands? Anyway... So now Scrib can't as much as smile at anybody without you making a scene?  Why are you so Oblivion-bent on the breaking the poor wench’s heart? Come on - remember what old Tilma said back when Scrib was still fetching the mead? The girl has a Farkas-sized crush on you! She worships the ground you trade on... Or something... Whenever she looks at you, it's as if she's seeing summer for the first time! Her feelings for you are written all over her face, clear enough even for a dumb old fella like me to see. Just as yours are stamped way, waay deep into your grey old mug. You said that the thing between you two is nothing to be ashamed of; I say it's like a half-tankard of good ale: not enough. You...'  
  
'I am a blind fool,' Athis said hoarsely.   
  
Torvar gave his friend a reassuring poke in the shoulder - and then tactfully turned away to allow him to wipe his eyes (and even sniff a little - though this remained a well-guarded secret between the two men).  
  
They were just getting up when the wind brought an echo of a distant sound, coming from the part of the wilds that they had just left, and where Sveta and Erik still remained. A faint terrified scream.  
  
Athis' pupils dilated.  
  
'B'vek, why does this always have to happen?!' he exclaimed, baring his sword and racing back to where he had left Sveta.   
  
Torvar rushed after him, panting.  
  
'Should... Should I grab the goat?' he called out as he raced by Gleda, who had found a nice comfortable spot on the bank and was dozing again.  
  
'I don't care about the goat!' Athis snapped over his shoulder. 'The goat can go to Oblivion!'  
  
'Yeah, right,' Torvar snorted into his beard. 'Scribs are much more important beasties than goats'.  
  
'Not funny, Torvar. Not funny'.


	3. Chapter 3

All right. He could do this. He had had the courage to charge at that big, mean old giant - dealing with a few oversized cats would surely be no harder.  
  
Tightening his grip on the old sword's hilt - which kept sliding out of his clammy, sweating fingers - Erik glared at the largest of the three beasts, a heaving bulk of fur and muscle with two burning, piercingly yellow eyes.   
  
'Bring it on, fuzzball,' he said, his voice cracking.  
  
With a loud, rolling growl, the sabre cat lurched forward; his eyes growing glassy and terrified, his blank mind ringing with a single thought, 'No, please, not the claws, not the claws!', Erik barely had time to leap aside - which he did mechanically, his groggy head barely registering what his legs were up to. His self-preservation instinct did him a good service - instead of tearing a huge chunk out of his body, the cat merely grazed his flesh; obviously frustrated at missing the prey, the beast pressed back its ears and prepared for a second pounce. Gasping for breath as his heart pushed its way up and down his throat, Erik waved his sword blindly through the air - and the fierce yellow eyes darted back and forth, following the mad flurry of the rusty blade; the cat was biding its time for the two-legged to drop his defenses, such as they were.  
  
  
***  
  
  
In the meanwhile, the other two beasts, a bit smaller than the one accosting Erik - perhaps younger members of the pride on the hunt with their mother - closed in on Sveta, who kept backing off until she felt something large and soft blocking her further retreat. She had stumbled right onto the hapless Grok's corpse.  
  
Tripping over the long, limp grey leg, Sveta fell backwards onto the giant's stomach. Panting loudly, she hurried to push herself up onto his chest, crawling as far away from the beasts' frothing maws as possible. The two cats had hesitated a little, sniffing at the mound of flesh beneath their quarry; but pursuing real prey interested them much more than picking apart a lifeless carcass - so they climbed up the corpse after Sveta, their eyes burning with the excitement of the hunt.  
  
Seeing that the cat closest to her was baring its fangs and flicking its tongue in anticipation of an ample meal, Sveta groped around with her sword-free hand for something to shield herself with. On the spur of the moment, taking no more time to think over her actions than Erik did, she sank her fingers into the giant's arm and, with a tremendous effort, bent it in the elbow and pulled it in front of her - so that when the cat snapped its jaws shut, it suddenly found its mouth filled with bitter, stingy giant flesh. The beast jerked its head from side to side, tearing at Grok's arm as if it was a toy, with a loud, sickening crunch - while its sibling shifted aside for better aim and clawed at Sveta's sword arm.  
  
Despite the sudden, shattering burst of pain, Sveta did not let go of her blade. Screwing up her eyes, she made a violent forward thrust... And for a fleeting moment, the barren hills around her whirled away, replaced with the courtyard of Jorvaskr, and her heart shrank into a pulsing knot at the raspy sound of Athis' voice, which drowned out the ripe squelch of the giant's flesh between the jaws of one sabre cat and the wheezing breath of another,  
  
 _'Come on, Scrib! Hit the dummy! Quit blubbering and give it all you got! Damn you, I said, quit blubbering!.. Please?'_  
  
Athis... Her dear, adored Athis... Would he ever be able to forgive her after this misunderstanding with Erik? Would she ever be able to convince him that no one in the whole wide world would ever mean more to her than he did? Would... would he ever repeat those wonderful, unbelievable, heavenly words - 'I care for you'?  
  
Slowly, the blade sank into the cat's fur, making a slurping noise, as if it was plunging deep into soft marshland moss; with a roar of agony, the beast rolled off the giant's corpse into the grass, leaving a glistening red trail behind it.  
  
The sound made Sveta start and let go of the giant's arm. The cat that had been chewing on Sveta's makeshift shield immediately spat it out and pounced at the distracted human. But instead of ripping Sveta apart with its fangs and claws, it merely rolled over her, pressing her down with its weight, smothering her with its bristling fur... Motionless. Ragdoll-like. With blood seeping out of a deep gash at the back of its skull.  
  
  
***  
  
  
After pulling his sword out of the dead cat's head, Athis found it very hard to keep his balance and not to collapse on top of it, completing the curious giant-human-beast-elf body stack. He had been running all the way back, and just as his legs had begun to give way and he had tasted the rusty tinge of blood in his mouth, the sight of his Sveta struggling with two sabre cats had given him one final surge of strength, which had lasted long enough for him to leap onto Grok's corpse and land the killing blow... Now, however, exhaustion was finally catching up with him. Panting, gagging at the smell of his own sweat, he reeled forward, grabbing at small tufts on the sabre cat's back and preparing to shove it aside and set Sveta free - but suddenly lost his footing and slipped off the dead giant and onto the ground - where he was greeted by a snarl of pain and helpless rage. The cat that Sveta had wounded was still breathing - though life was rapidly ebbing out of its body; trickling off in large, ruby-red drops. It barely had enough strength for a single burst of feral fury; the back of its throat bubbling with a predatory growl, it snapped at the swaying two-legged - and as it sank its fangs into Athis' flesh, making him cry out sharply and sink to his knees, its body stiffened and its eyes lost their hungry glow, forever.  
  
Though not quite as large as the third cat, which she had last seen circling round Erik (oh goodness, she did hope he was all right!), this beastie was still awfully heavy. It took Sveta a lot of pushing and kicking to finally squeeze herself out into the open; her head swam a little at the whiff of fresh air, after wriggling on one spot with her nose stuffed full of sabre cat fur. And it swam even more when she glanced down and realized what - who - had made the cat fall on top of her in the first place.  
  
'Athis!' she squealed tearfully, clambering down to his side. 'You - you came back!'  
  
The Dunmer winced in pain and jerked his head sideways, in the direction of the dead beast, which was still clinging firmly on to him.  
  
'The blasted... cat... bit... my leg...' he said in a half-strangled voice. 'Can't... move...'  
  
Sveta rounded her mouth into a small, startled 'o', and made a clumsy attempt to pry the cat's jaws apart with her sword (containing her squeamishness as best she could). But no matter how hard she leaned against her makeshift layer, the fanged trap still retained a firm hold on Athis' leg - his eyes flaring up impatiently, the Dunmer whipped the blade out of Sveta's grasp and, bending awkwardly to the side, pushed at it with all his might. The dead maw opened, and Athis was able to pull his leg free, biting his lips and breathing loudly through his nostrils.  
  
'It's the same leg that got chewed up by the dragon,' he spat. 'Curse you, Scrib, why do I always have to go through things like this to save your hide?!'  
  
'I am sorry,' Sveta mumbled, stretching her hand down towards Athis and letting the golden healing light weave itself round his bloodied leg. 'It will stop hurting soon... You know it will...'  
  
Even though the marks left by the cat's teeth soon faded away, the twisted, pain-filled look did not leave Athis' face; on the contrary, the suffering in his darkened eyes seemed to grow deeper - and just as Sveta finished casting her spell and took a small step back, he grasped her hands, as if begging her to stay close to him... and then completely, utterly stunned Sveta by pressing her bony, cold fingers against his burning cheeks and groaning faintly,  
  
'Sveta... Sveta... My sweet, kind, gentle Sveta... I have been such a stupid fetcher... Please... Forgive me... For what I said just now... For my crazy rant about you and that boy, Erik... For abandoning you in the wilds, to be mauled by sabre cats... For...' Sveta's heart contracted with pity as she watched a small lump move up Athis' throat. 'For... everything...'  
  
Dear gods... She had to be dreaming... He... He was apologizing to her... He was talking her with a tenderness that she had never dared imagine; no, had never dared to as much as think of hoping to imagine... And now - and now he was kissing her hands! This was his fourth kiss... Fifth... Sixth... Seventh...  
  
Slowly, she bent her knees and lowered herself to the ground next to him.  
  
'Athis...' she breathed, leaning towards him and gently brushing a loose strand of hair out of his face. 'Oh, Athis... There is nothing to ask forgiveness for...'  
  
'There is,' he replied hoarsely, his eyes flashing. 'There is, and you damn well know it! I suffer enough knowing that I hurt you - I don't need you going about denying it!' he moved his hand under Sveta's chin and jerked her face upwards, his quivering, twitching lips inches away from hers. 'Say it! Say it out loud! Say that I am a cruel, heartless n'wah!'  
  
She smiled. By Dibella, he looked so handsome when he was angry... Frightening - but handsome.  
  
Her head swimming with a sudden rush of blood, a tiny voice at the back of her head squeaking in astonishment at her own boldness, Sveta whispered,   
  
'You are a cruel, heartless n'wah... And I forgive you. Because deep down, you are nothing of the sort. I have seen it...'  
  
And then, when the tender pointy tip of Athis' ear flushed a faint purple at the sound of her words, she kissed it. She realized what she had just done only after the fact - and, her cheeks blooming with two bright spots of magenta, made a small, shuddering intake of breath, savouring the memory of Athis' flesh beneath her lips. After lingering for a fracture of a second, she lowered her eyelids and, overcome by the breathless excitement of rushing down a precipice, moved over to his sharp, jutting cheekbone (which tasted a little salty), and to his feverish forehead, and...  
  
And then Torvar called out to them, from some distant plane of existence,  
  
'Hey! You two alive back there? Erik has totally killed a sabre right now!'  
  
  
***  
  
  
Erik's mad sword-brandishing kept the cat away from him for a while - but he could not dance about like this forever. Presently, his arm began to ache, his movements grew slower, and the greyish blur in his hand began moulding back into a sword. The yellow eyes narrowed, the hunger in them burning brighter and brighter the wearier Erik became - and when he finally lowered his blade, stroking his sword arm with his free hand to soothe the burning pain in his muscles, the beast leapt forward. This time, Erik reacted too late and failed to dodge the heavy, steel-clawed paws; the beast mashed him into the ground, knocking the weapon out of his grasp, ripping at his clothes, suffocating him with its rancid breath...   
  
This was not fair! He couldn't die like that - torn to shreds by those curved, glistening, dripping teeth, crushed under the weight of those massive paws! Not after he had just started being heroic! Someone had to come, to save him, to pull the beast away and help him to his feet, like it always happened in bardic tales! Please! Please, please, please...  
  
It seemed that this time, the gods had decided to smile upon Erik and make the ancient heroic lays a reality. Help did arrive at the very last moment - in the form of a big, panting, bearded Nord in leather armour, whizzing across the wilderness with his axe high in the air. At the thundering sound of his approach, the cat froze, its jaws almost scraping against Eric's face, and flicked back its left ear, listening. Then, just as the rescuer was beginning his downswing, the beast whipped around and pounced at him; the Nord managed to block the deadly strike of the cat's claws with his axe handle, the force of the impact making a deep crack run along it.  
  
For a few interminable, eternity-like seconds, they struggled with one another, the human straining his every muscle to contain the beast's savage fury. Erik, who had staggered to his feet, watched them in dumbfounded silence, mesmerized, overwhelmed by the tension building up between the warrior and the cat that was clawing at his splintering weapon. This... this looked like a scene from an adventure book... The standoff between man and beast. The ultimate test of strength...  
  
The rosy haze inside Erik's head grew a little thinner when it suddenly dawned on him that the cat was beginning to overpower his valiant rescuer. After groping about in the grass, he swiped up his sword and made a beeline for the corner of the battlefield where the bearded Nord clashed with the sabre cat.   
  
He might or might have not shrieked something incoherent and 'Huzzah!'-like in the process... and might or might have not flapped his arms wildly. He certainly wouldn't like to have these details featured in a song about his heroic deeds. Instead, he would prefer a detailed description of his epic attack on the cat from behind and the utterly incredible series of blows that he landed - hack! hack! hack! - and the unfathomable amounts of blood that he drew, dull though his blade was... The older Nord helped him a little, once he regained fighting advantage; but it didn't really count. It was he, Erik, who killed the sabre cat. He and he alone! Ysmir's beard, this was it! His first ever heroic feat! He couldn't wait to go back to Rorikstead and tell Father!  
  
'Blah! Blaaah!'   
  
Erik had been standing tall and proud, with his left foot on the dead cat's head and his hands resting on his hips, surrounded by the three Companions (oh dear gods, they seemed to be approving of him! Admiring him! Even that Dunmer seemed not so grumpy for a change - even a little apologetic, for some reason). The sudden sharp bleat somewhere behind his back made him start and turn around frantically to check who had dared to mar his triumph. Good old Gleda was, once again, reunited with the goat-saving team. She must have followed Torvar and Athis after waking up from her nap, and was now in the process of making an important decision: whether to chew Torvar's armour or Erik's half-shredded shirt.   
  
'Ah, there she is, the little goat!' Sveta cooed, leaning down to pet the tuft of hair on Gleda's forehead - though rather wary of her horns. 'Safe and sound! Ennis is going to be so happy! Oh, I don't dare think what would have happened if the poor thing wandered into those sabre cats! They would have...'  
  
Athis' face had clouded over at the mention of the sabre cats; he hurried to cut Sveta short,  
  
'Let's go back already'.  
  
'Oh, oh, oh!' Erik piped in pleadingly. 'Can we please skin the sabre cats? Or at least the one I killed? So I have something to show Father...'  
  
'I say we loot the giant's body, too,' Torvar remarked. 'These blighters always carry coinpurses for some reason - no idea why they need them... to buy goats? But I sure know why we will need a coinpurse! To buy ourselves lots and lots of drinks! By Shor, I can't believe I lasted this long without drinking; it's been days!.. I think'.  
  
  
***  
  
  
'What is taking that drunk so long?!' Ennis moaned, swaying from side to side on the stool in front of the counter. 'I cannot suffer like this!'  
  
'Mhm,' Mralki the innkeeper replied, rubbing a soiled slip of cloth violently against an invisible speck on a beer mug.  
  
'Don't you "Mhm" me!' Ennis shrieked in indignation. 'How can you "Mhm" a man in pain?!'  
  
Mralki lowered the mug, looking a little startled.  
  
'I am sorry, Ennis,' he said quietly. 'I am just in no mood for conversation. My boy, Erik, has not come home for dinner, and I am beginning to get worried...'  
  
Ennis snorted bitterly.  
  
'Oh, please! You know that little lay-about! He is probably sitting in some tree, daydreaming! He will come back when he gets hungry enough... Now, my goat is an entirely different matter...'  
  
Mralki frowned. Thank the Divines he had once been a soldier, so he knew how to keep his temper in check - otherwise he would have grabbed that wretched Redguard by the collar and given him a good shake. How could Ennis put the safety of some stupid goat before that of a human being! Of his boy!.. Wherever had that foolish child gone to now? If Mralki didn't have an inn to watch over, he would have rushed out into the wilds the moment Erik missed dinner - but as long as there were customers around, all he could do was pray to the Eight that the boy was all right... That he hadn't...  
  
'Da! Look! I have killed a sabre cat!'  
  
The door of the inn burst open, and in marched his Erik, swaying beneath the weight of a large animal pelt; his clothes - the horror! - were torn and splattered with what looked suspiciously like blood - but his face was splitting from cheek to cheek with a radiant grin. He was closely followed by three rather suspicious-looking characters, who were just as bedraggled and bloodied as he was (and to cap it all, one of them was an elf!)... and by Ennis' lost goat.  
  
The little beast looked around the inn for something to chew at and, catching a whiff of food from the kitchen, let out a hungry, demanding bleat. Ennis whisked round on his stool and, throwing his arms up into the air, rushed towards Gleda - just as Mralki, flustered, hen-like, was stumbling from behind his counter. Side by side, the two men raced towards the entrance to embrace their respective prodigal family members - and for a short while, the inn erupted into absolute chaos of gleeful exclamations, emphatic reprimands and emotional responses.  
  
'Erik! You are back! I was worried sick!'  
  
'Blah!'  
  
'Oh, Gleda! Home at last! And not a scratch on you!'  
  
'Da, I did it all by myself! The cat was like, "Rawr! I will bite your head off!", and I was like, "No way in Oblivion!"  
  
'I can't imagine how scared you were, held prisoner by that giant...'  
  
'Blah! Blaaah!'  
  
'What do you think you were doing, running off into the wilds like that, looking for trouble?! And is that my old sword? I told you not to touch it!'  
  
'But Da! I got a chance to meet real warriors and go adventuring with them! First, we battled a giant, and then - a whole bunch of sabre cats! And I did very well! Master Torvar was there, he will tell you - won't you, Master Torvar?'  
  
'Hey you - Torvar, is it? I hope you apologized to Gleda for kidnapping her! She is sensitive, you know! Delicate! Refined! She didn't win that prize for nothing!'  
  
'Is it true? Did you and your friends drag my boy into fighting wild monsters? You could have gotten him killed! Real warriors my... apron! He is just a child!'  
  
'No I'm not! And I just proved it!'  
  
'Blaaah - blaaah!'  
  
Torvar blinked in confusion, accosted from all sides by Mralki, Erik, Ennis and the goat, and flapped his arms, as if shooing off a flock of birds.  
  
'Come on, not all at once!' he called out, fumbling in his belt pouch for the giant's coin purse (Grok did turn out to have one, kind of deflated, but still enough to pay for food and board at the inn). 'First, our team needs a hearty meal, a couple of decent drinks, and a bath! Not necessarily in that order... Hey, in fact, I would prefer it all at the same time!'  
  
  
***  
  
  
Despite accepting Grok's gold as payment, Mralki still could not keep from grumbling about 'the nerve' of his three guests. Demanding food and a bath after they had whisked his only son off on some crazy adventure - really? But eventually, Sveta managed to soothe him, offering to prepare the meal while the bath water was heating up.   
  
Even after all those months of working in Jorvaskr as a serving wench, her movements were still a little unsure and clumsy, but she was trying her best. Athis, who had tagged along into the kitchen to help her with the helping, yet again found himself smiling as he watched her rattle with the saucepans or slant the cutting board against the edge of a pot to let freshly diced carrots slide down into the bubbling broth. Every now and again, she asked him to hand her something - a knife or a branch of dried elfroot or some vegetable he had peeled for her; she spoke quietly, shyly, as though apologizing for being a bother, and gave him timid glances over her shoulder, to which he hurried to respond to with a reassuring smile. And when their hands met, somewhere on the kitchen table, among the wet, soiled, crisp greens, he always, always allowed his fingers to linger over hers, his cheeks flaring with the memory of her kisses, and his heart melting in the embrace of an odd feeling that swelled up within his chest at the mere thought that he was standing side by side with Sveta.   
  
B'vek, who could have thought that this little Scrib would make him go so soft? What if - what if he was gradually turning into a... what was that Nord word... a milk-drinker? No. Athis shook his head to chase the thought away, feeling angry at himself. No. This sweet contentment, this perfect bliss that he was feeling - it was a sign of happiness, not weakness. He just had to remind himself of this a bit more often. Himself and Sveta. And - and why not remind her now? Why not tell her? By Azura, he might just do it! Right here, right now - before he got mad over some trifle and frightened the poor girl out of her wits again.  
  
'Sveta...' he said huskily, making her turn away from the soup she was stirring.  
  
'Yes, Athis?' she asked with a small smile, eyebrows arched.  
  
'I...'   
  
Come now. This could not be too hard. The words, short, decisive as the strikes of a blade, to cleave through all that damn uncertainty between them.  
  
'I... Oh, dammit!'  
  
Trust his rotten luck. He knew, he just knew that something like this would happen. Was bound to.   
  
Just as he was taking a breath of air before saying the second and third words in that fateful phrase, sharp, burning pain shot through his temples, making invisible cracks run along the sides of his head. Blinded by blurred, vivid yellow spots that floated through the air all around him, Athis swayed, grabbing the edge of the table. The spots swelled and slid together, till he could no longer keep his eyes open because of the dazzling yellow light that made his eyeballs pulse in pain.  
  
'Athis? Athis? What happened? Are you all right?'  
  
He could barely hear Sveta's voice - perhaps because the stupid girl always spoke so quietly, or perhaps because of the wail of agony that rang through his head, blocking out all other sounds.  
  
'It's nothing...' he mouthed, praying to all the gods he could remember, what with his skull so close to falling apart, that he would not make a fool of himself and slide down to the floor. 'Just... Just... a little headache...'  
  
'You... You have grown so pale... What if you are sick? Sabre cats carry all sorts of nasty diseases! I... I healed your flesh wounds, but if that filth got into your blood... I - I don't know the right magic to cure it...'  
  
Gods, how her voice hammered into his head - this had to be what rocks feel like when chipped at by a miner!  
  
'If you can't heal me,' he interrupted, his voice creaking like the rusty hinges of an old door, 'Then... Then leave me be!'  
  
Sveta reached out to soothe him, but he pushed her away, hating himself for the impulse but too sick to contain it - and without a word, she scurried off to help Mralki fill the bath for Erik, who had been eager to go first and even dug up a toy duckling in his room. Gasping and wincing with pain, Athis dragged himself into a dark corner, where he remained till Sveta returned to tell him that the other men had bathed and to ask if he wanted to be next.   
  
By that time, headache had ebbed away a little, and Athis even managed to get to the tub without leaning on Sveta for support. He did consider feigning a new surge of pain and pretending that he could not undress on his own, but Sveta was blushing fiercely enough as it was, so he decided to spare her and ushered her out of the room, as best he could. When she slid off, shutting the door behind her, Athis jerked the straps of his armour off his shoulders and, as the hide garment folded in a creased bundle at his feet, tore off his loincloth and lowered himself heavily into the tub.  
  
The water let off swirling wisps of thick, scorching, milky vapour; Athis could sense a faint scent of herbs; Sveta must have added them, bless her kind little heart. Why, oh why had he been so rude with her again? He would have to... apologize... again... later... Later...  
  
Breathing in deeply, Athis sank into the water till the tip of his curved nose was submerged, blowing small bubbles on the surface. The comforting warmth spread through his body, and the headache almost completely lifted his claws off his skull. He could even tolerate the sounds of a loud argument in another room without wincing in pain - and let his thoughts crawl lazily from one subject to another, depending on what he heard.  
  
 _'Father, please! This pelt is proof that I can handle myself!'_  
  
That was that boy, Erik. He was a decent sort, all things considered. And Sveta seemed to be regarding him as a sort of a younger brother... Gods, how could Athis have been so foolishly jealous? He could not believe the crazy things he did sometimes... Torvar was right; his blood had gone to his head. He could only hope that Sveta really did mean it when she said that she forgave him, and was not just trying to calm him down. But she had to mean it - she had kissed him, after all. Oh, those sweet, heavenly kisses...  
  
 _'I am not taking you to buy armour, and that's final! You judge the world out there by books and songs and gods know what! You are not fit to be a sell-sword!'_  
  
Mralki. The protective father - a notion that Athis was completely unfamiliar with. He had been fending for himself most of his life, even when his parents had not yet joined his ancestors. It was only recently that he had felt the closest thing to a parent's protective touch - Sveta healing him. He might have pretended outwardly that it mattered little to him, if at all - but deep down, he was growing rather dependent on her Restoration spells.  
  
 _'Oh, come on - would you rather the lad grow bitter and - what's the word - re... resent you?'_  
  
And that nasally drawl belonged to good old Torvar. The foolish human had had a few mugs after his bath, judging by the way he slurred the words. If only Athis could find a way to make him kick that foul habit! Look where one night of the Nord's wild drinking led them... Though, of course, he could not complain. This crazy journey had brought him closer to Sveta. Well now, fancy that - no matter what he started out thinking about, he inevitably ended up daydreaming about his sweet little Scrib...  
  
While listening to Mralki give in and reluctantly promise his son to 'see about borrowing some money for new armour', Athis must have shifted his head to an uncomfortable position, because the pain returned. Throbbing, shattering, it made the world spin away and then come flying back again. Dizzy and disoriented, once again unable to see through all those dense yellow spots, Athis started climbing out of the tub - but tripped and fell over, sprawling awkwardly on the floor in a small pool of water. That was how Sveta found him. Naked. Unable to move. Squished like a bug beneath the weight of his headache - and of helpless humiliation. He remembered feeling enraged at how ridiculous he had to look right now - and then the yellow spots filled his entire world, and he lost his grip on what was happening.  
  
  
***  
  
  
He awoke on the porch of the inn - and was almost knocked unconscious again by the powerful rush of fresh air. He was sitting on a bench, wrapped in a blanket - and Sveta had perched herself unobtrusively at his side, with a wooden comb in her hands. She was running it gently through his wet, tangled copper hair, and as he glanced at her, turning his head slightly, he could see that she was smiling a tender, serene smile.  
  
'Are you feeling better now?' she asked, seeing that he had come to his senses.  
  
He dared to give her a small nod - it hurt, but not as much as he had feared it would.  
  
'I thought the amulet would help,' Sveta's smile broadened. 'It is enchanted to give wearer more stamina. I am praying that Kynareth will make you strong enough to travel to Whiterun. We still have a little gold left; I can buy a Cure Disease potion from Arcadia, and you will be all right again'.  
  
Athis had frowned at the mention of an amulet and Kynareth; but after groping blindly round his neck, he understood. His fingers soon brushed against something small and hard and shaped like a teardrop. Sveta had given him the enchanted pendant she always wore - a token of her connection to her patron goddess. As far as he knew, she never parted with it, and after every battle, no matter how beaten up she was, made a point of checking if the amulet was still there round her neck. In a way, it was part of her. She... she had given him part of herself. His fingers still clasped round the amulet, Athis lifted it to his lips and held it there - until he thought that he was probably being irreverent towards the Divine and hastened to break the kiss.  
  
'I... I hope the clasp is closed all right,' Sveta said, giggling. 'I... I put it on with my eyes shut, because you were... not dressed. But then Erik came along with a blanket and I could open my eyes again'.  
  
'Am I so hideous that you have to cover me up?' Athis joked, in an attempt to conceal his burning embarrassment. These - these had to be the most stupid circumstances under which Sveta could possibly see him naked!  
  
Flushed and breathless, she did her best to return the joke.  
  
'You are not hideous - you are too handsome for my poor eyes to bear!'  
  
He chuckled. This was the first time the two of them exchanged friendly jests like that - and it felt good. Gods, it felt so good...  
  
'Oh, Athis - could you please turn your back towards me?' Sveta asked softly. 'Completely? I want to finish my combing... Maybe make a little braid or two - not too tight, I promise! I don’t want to worsen your headache… just to make you even more handsome!'  
  
Athis smirked and shifted in his seat obediently; and as the comb slid up and down through his hair, he wondered to himself if this was what it felt like. Being... He hesitated a little, not daring to speak the word, even inside his mind... Being married. Helping your wife with the cooking. Letting her take care of you in sickness. Allowing her to play with your hair... Relishing the simple, everyday joys of - of family life.   
  
For many, many years, since his childhood and up until he reached his prime - by elven standards - he had been alone in the world. A lost wanderer, a vagabond crossing first the ravaged, ashen wilds of Morrowind, and then the icy expanse of Skyrim. Searching for a purpose. For a place to call home. He thought he had found both when he joined the Companions. He was accepted into one large, close-knit family, held together by what Skjor liked to call the 'bonds of sweat', opposed to those of blood - and life was finally beginning to make sense. Grateful for the peace and acceptance he had found, he had never thought he would want more than leaving every day on a quest for fortune and glory and returning to the warmth of the meadhall to shed his weariness and tell his stories to eager listeners. And yet... And yet now, time and again, a thought would flash through his mind - that perhaps there could be something else. A smaller family within the one he had joined. A smaller fire next to the raging flames in the centre of the meadhall - with just enough warmth for two people...  
  
His visions whirled away like a swarm of bright butterflies when a tall figure came staggering down the street towards them. It was Torvar - deeper in his cups than Athis approved of, and waving something small and white in the air; a slip of paper, perhaps.  
  
'Hey!' the big Nord called out, doing a small, clumsy jig. 'Heeey! You feeling better, buddy? I was on my way to the outhouse, and bumped into that Ennis fella again! He said he and Gleda had forgiven me, and gave me this! It's a note I gave him to hic!-splain why I stole the goat! It says here I wanted to pay back Ysolda in Whiterun! Looks like a next clue!'  
  
Athis sighed. He was getting used to interruptions. But sometime soon, he would have to tell her.


	4. Chapter 4

Arcadia counted the coins with great caution, trying not to hold them in her hand longer than absolutely necessary. Adventurers' gold comes from all kinds of unsanitary places - why, once she had a customer tell her that he had found a septim inside the stomach of a wolf, among remnants of half-digested food!.. She would have to soak the coins in a disinfectant later - but for now, wiping her hands on a specially prepared wet towel would have to suffice.  
  
'Yes, thank you, this is more than ample,' the alchemist said after she made sure than her fingers bore no trace of the filthy coins. 'I will make the potion now - it will only take a minute'.  
  
In a swift, practiced gesture, she picked up a small curved knife that lay behind the sooty, puffing, gurgling alchemy apparatus, and shaved off a small slice of charred skeever hide into a mortar. After grinding at it for a while, till it turned into fine brownish dust, Arcadia swept it off into the glass phial she had readied; then, she took a pinch of soft, flaking, ashen powder from a bowl on a shelf above her lab table, added it to the mixture and poured in a watery, sickly green solvent.  
  
'What your friend has, dear child, is Witbane,' she said in a scholar's tone, looking up from the hissing, frothing potion and addressing Sveta.  
  
She remembered her as a timid, mouse-like little thing, always eager to run errands for any merchant in town... well, not as much eager as not daring to refuse. Arcadia had not seen her in a while, and was taken a bit by surprise when the child showed up on her doorstep accompanied by two of the famed Companions - one looking as if he had recently been sleeping off a long, long night, and another on the verge of fainting. The girl herself appeared a little... off, somehow. She still remained the same - floppy fair hair, transparent grey eyes, untrimmed eyebrows raised like a child's - and yet something about her seemed... different. Arcadia could not quite put her finger on it - maybe the girl had contracted Ataxia?  
  
But those were all idle musings; in the meanwhile, the potion kept brewing, and the alchemist went on lecturing.  
  
'It is a disease commonly carried by sabre cats; it mostly affects mages, preventing them from casting spells properly - but even those who do not have magical ability can suffer from severe headaches and fits of nausea. Now, this little concoction of mine has an about ninety-seven point five percent chance of defeating the infection instantaneously; should it fail, I will be happy to observe any side effects...'  
  
The patient - Athis she believed his name was; a red-haired, lithe Dunmer with a natural scowl on his face - curled his lips and said hoarsely,  
  
'Just get the thing done already'.  
  
Arcadia rolled up her eyes. Nobody appreciated dedicated research any more.  
  
When the bubbling and simmering stopped and the potion was ready, the alchemist lifted the phial into the light, shook it a little and, when the dregs settled down, handed it to the Dunmer. He accepted the cure with a silent nod and drank it in one long draught, his neck strained and his head thrown back. When he drained the last drops, he lowered the phial onto the counter and pressed his fingers against his mouth, tactfully suppressing a belch.   
  
After a short while, the twisted web of lines on his face dissolved a little, as did the film dimming his eyes; glancing around the shop as if he had only just realized where he was, he took a deep, luxuriant breath of air, craned his neck to the right and to the left, apparently checking if it hurt to move his head - and finally, flipped his hair, making the girl squeal breathlessly.  
  
And Arcadia had to admit, the child had every reason to squeal. The elf had beautiful hair - completely healthy, not showing any signs of falling out or growing too greasy - or coming alive, as it had happened to some of Arcadia's mage customers. Though this had to be the first time she ever saw him wearing it loose like that.   
  
Before today, each time Arcadia had bumped into that morose elven warrior, he would always have his hair combed back and tied into a tight ponytail. Now it cascaded freely down his shoulders, with only a few strands woven together into four thin, gossamer-light braids, two at each side of the Dunmer's head; gleaming like fine, intricate copper chains, they trailed down over the springy, glossy mane, and finally merged together, held in place with a small, neat white bow. From where she stood, Arcadia could not make out if the fabric matched that of the shabby miner's shirt the girl was wearing - but the rim of that (obviously long-suffering) garment did look as if a small strip of cloth had been torn off it (you learn to notice small things like that when you spend day after day scrutinizing your customers to check for symptoms of Rockjoint or Bonebreak Fever or Yellow Tick, that malady from Cyrodiil).   
  
The alchemist wondered to herself how this fierce, battle-scarred Dark Elf could have allowed anyone to braid his hair like this - and tie a bow into it, no less... Must have been too overcome with Witbane to fight back, the poor fellow. Oh, oh - and maybe he had contracted something else along with that ailment! Now that Arcadia thought of it, she might have detected a case of the Rattles when the elf walked into her shop...  
  
  
***  
  
  
'This had to be the foulest brew I ever tasted,' Athis wheezed, massaging his throat, as he stepped out of Arcadia's Cauldron. 'Excluding the concoction that you and your friend Sam coaxed me into drinking!'  
  
Torvar responded with a genial grin.  
  
'Hey, at least it seems to be working! Haven't heard you grumble about anything for hours. Grumbling means you are feeling better!'  
  
Athis' mouth twitched slightly. True enough, he had not had the strength to grumble too much, with the headache sweeping over him now and again, raining red-hot needles over his poor skull. If it had not been for Sveta's amulet and its magical stamina boost, he doubted he would have been able as much as to walk all the way from Rorikstead to Whiterun. Which reminded him...  
  
'Sveta,' he called out, loosening the clasp round his neck and revelling in the lack of a painful echo inside his head at the sound of his voice. 'I won't be needing your amulet any longer - you can have it back!'  
  
When he addressed her, she had been exiting the shop, walking backwards and still showering Arcadia with blubbering gratitude for treating Athis' headache; at the sound of his voice, she turned her head - and tripped over a loose cobblestone. Flapping her arms helplessly, she almost plopped down to the ground - but luckily, Torvar managed to catch her in time. For a few moments, he stood motionless, holding Sveta in his arms and staring questioningly at Athis. The memory of the scene the flighty elf had made over Erik was still fresh - and frankly speaking, the big Nord had every reason to be worried. Athis' mind had barely had a chance to clear, finally freed from the clutches of the accursed Witbane - and it was already beginning to cloud over again, as jealous rage rumbled within him like a wakening caldera.  
  
But this time, the gods decided to spare Athis from making a fool of himself - and sent along a young, short-haired Nord woman in a plain, coarse blue dress and with a wicker shopping basket under her arm. It did not take long for the Companions to recognize her as Ysolda, the local apprentice merchant and business partner of the wandering Khajiit caravaneers; the very Ysolda who had supposedly given Torvar some sort of loan while he was drunk.  
  
She had been striding casually towards the market square, humming a tune - but as soon as she caught sight of her two kinsmen clutching one another awkwardly in the middle of the street, she stopped in her tracks and folded her arms, tapping her fingers impatiently against the basket.  
  
'Well now,' she said slowly, sizing up both Torvar and Sveta, 'This must be your fiancée... Does this mean you have the money to pay for the ring?'  
  
His eyes rounding into two bulging blue spheres, Torvar made a terrified gulp-like sound and tossed Sveta over to Athis, as though the two Companions were playing a ball game, and she was the flustered, blushing, fair-haired little ball. Then - after Athis had closed his arms round the precious little Scrib, slipping the amulet of Kynareth back into her hand and failing to resist the urge to bury his face in her hair, his eyelids sliding together like a content, drowsy Khajiit's - Torvar took a deliberate step away from the two and blurted out, flailing his arms emphatically,  
  
'No, no, no, no! She is not mine - she... she is his!'  
  
Athis could feel Sveta start at those words; her flesh beneath his fingers, separated from him only by the tattered miner's shirt, suddenly grew hot to the touch, and he almost heard her quickening heartbeat echoing through his own veins.   
  
Oh, Torvar. The foolish, blundering Torvar. In one short, frantic exclamation, he had said out loud when Athis himself had been struggling to express for gods know how long. Sveta was his. His. His loyal, selfless friend. His treasure. His tender little Nordic flower. His... his love. And blast it all, if Torvar could speak about it with such ease, so could he!.. Only right now, he had other things to deal with first.   
  
'Wait - wait a second,' Athis said sharply; his arms were still wrapped tightly round Sveta, but his dreamy grin had shrivelled into an indignant scowl. 'You - you have a fiancée? You are getting married? And you didn't even tell me?'  
  
Torvar shut his eyes and then opened them wide again, looking as if some nefarious character had sneaked up behind him and hit him with a club on the back of his head.  
  
'I don't remember any fi... fiancée...' he said thickly. 'Upon my word, I don't! '  
  
Ysolda shook her head disapprovingly.  
  
'I can't believe it! After you spoke so glowingly of her! Well, not remembering anything does not erase the debt. I worked very hard to get that ring for you - so you either pay the two thousand septims you promised, or find your fiancée and bring it back!'  
  
If it didn't get stuck in the tangled up mass of the big Nord's beard, Torvar's jaw would surely have dropped down to the ground.  
  
'Two... thousand... septims...' he choked. 'I... I think I'd rather go look for this fiancée...'  
  
'Perfect,' Athis said venomously through gritted teeth. 'Looks like we are in for yet another crazy race across Skyrim - all thanks to your stupidity! I still can't believe you managed to get engaged all a sudden! And you don't even know to whom, either - odds are, you had never met the woman before that night!'  
  
Torvar was slowly beginning to miss the time when the elf was too sick to talk. Couldn't he see that he was feeling awfully stupid about this thing as it was? Stealing goats and dealing with giants was one thing - but promising some unknown wench he would marry her? This was kind of awkward.  
  
Marrying people was absolutely not his style, and knowing that Sam fellow and his magic brew, his unknown bride was probably not even pretty. But even if she was, he would still have to up and tell her that the whole deal was off and Ysolda wanted the ring back... Torvar shuddered, vividly imagining two sets of neatly trimmed, pink little claws aiming at his face. Not a pleasant picture, to be sure - and Athis' snide comments did not make things any better.  
  
'Well, maybe we had a real thing!' Torvar snapped back in frustration - not that it was what he really thought; far from it - all he wanted was to shut the elf up. 'Not everyone spends days and days prancing in circles round a girl, yelling all kinds of mean things instead of telling her how much he loves her!'   
  
Athis let go of Sveta, taking long, deep, loud breaths of air through his widened, quivering nostrils.  
  
'What are you hinting at?' he asked in a dangerously calm, almost silky tone, advancing at Torvar with his head bent forward - and even somehow managing to loom over him, despite the Nord being taller. 'I know where I fail - it is not for you to rub my nose in it!'  
  
Her eyes darting wildly from the Athis' heaving chest and hunched shoulders to Torvar's knitted eyebrows, Sveta rushed in between the two men, her arms spread out wide.  
  
'Please, not again!'  
  
Too concerned about Torvar and Athis hurting each other, she did not stop and think over their heated word-sparring. A wise logician would have interpreted Athis' vehement outcry about his 'failing' as an indirect confession. But Sveta was no wise logician; she was just a little milk-drinker, constantly having to deal with a short-tempered, feisty Dunmer and a dizzy scatterbrain of a Nord.  
  
'I beg you: don't start a fight!'  
  
The sound of her pleading, tremulous voice had the same effect as that little splash in a cold spring, courtesy of Torvar. Athis stepped back, eyes cast down, and muttered some kind of long, guttural Dunmeri curse under his breath, and Torvar coughed sheepishly into his beard. Terrified of the silence that inevitably follows scenes like that, Sveta hurried to turn to Ysolda,  
  
'Uhm... Excuse me... I was wondering... That is, if it isn't too much of a bother... Could you, perhaps, tell us more about... about Torvar's fiancée?'  
  
The merchant's eyes turned into shimmering crescents, their pupils disappearing almost entirely.  
  
'Aww, it was such a sweet story!' she cooed. 'The sweetest I'd ever heard! The two of them met at the full moon, under the biggest tree in Witchmist Grove, surrounded by fireflies! It was straight out of storybook!'  
  
  
***  
  
'Give me that! Are you sure you are not holding the map upside down?'  
  
Athis jerked the greasy slip of parchment out of Torvar's grasp and stared at it, frowning.   
  
They had borrowed the map at the Drunken Huntsman, the local supply store, leaving Torvar's leather bracers as collateral. The big Nord had been forced to go through with the negotiations all alone, because Sveta had dashed outside the moment the friendly Bosmer owner winked at her - the poor thing must have feared that Athis would throw a new fit - and the Dunmer had soon followed her, pulling violently at his own hair, for some mercenary woman loitering about the establishment had drawn his attention to the little white bow,  
  
'My, my, my - in all my travels across Skyrim, I have never come across such a handsome bearded lady!'  
  
Athis must have given Scrib a piece of his mind about taking creative liberties with his hairstyle, for when Torvar had finally exited the shop, equipped with the map and a jolly yarn about two drunken Wood Elf brothers shooting each other in the dark, he had beheld his friend pressing his lips against each of the girl's fingers, over and over again, and growling raspily between kisses,  
  
'I didn't mean what I said, I swear...'  
  
That Dunmer had a problem.  
  
Though, admittedly, Torvar had a problem too. A pretty big one. But come to think of it - it still remained to be seen which problem was bigger: getting engaged to a random girl or not getting engaged to the not-so-random girl. By Ysmir, that was deep. Torvar did not even know he could think so neatly.  
  
  
Well, in any case, now that they had resolved all their disagreements - more or less - and had found the tiny inky squiggle labelled 'Witchmist Grove' on the map, the three adventurers were, at long last, well on their way... hopefully in the right direction.  
  
  
'Calm down!' Torvar said, whipping the map back out of Athis' hands. 'I have it all under control! See?'  He traced his thick, hairy finger along the black swirls that were apparently supposed to mark the borders of Whiterun Hold. 'We follow the road we arrive in Eastmarch; from there, it's only a short trek across the tundra'.  
  
'Eastmarch is that way,' Athis said dryly, reaching out for the parchment sheet again and flipping it around slightly. 'What you are pointing at is southern Pale. Say...' he looked up from the map, his eyes boring intently into Torvar's. 'You... You don't want us to find Witchmist Grove, do you? You don't want to meet this fiancée of yours again? You are... afraid of how it might turn out? Of how she'll react?'  
  
The big Nord started.  
  
'I am not afraid!' he blurted out, his forehead filming over with sweat.  
  
Athis clicked his tongue in disbelief.  
  
'I think I will be the guide from now on,' he said, scooping the map up into his arms. 'Now, let me see... The first landmark on our way should be Val...' he peered at the miniscule writing. 'Valtheim Towers.'  
  
  
***  
  
  
After a few zigzags through the wilds, they finally caught sight of the two half-ruined, lopsided towers, perched on the massive grey rocks on both banks of a river, linked together by a narrow stone bridge. Athis glanced down at the parchment and back up again, giving a curt nod of satisfaction. The ruins matched the two spots on the left and right side of the little blotted snake that stood for the river.   
  
'Now that's what I call following the map,' he said, with a very meaningful look at Torvar.   
  
The big Nord made a sour grimace; the two men would surely have started to argue again - but before they could as much as assume the traditional fighting rooster poses, the adventuring trio was joined by a burly, broad-shouldered Redguard woman with fur pelts wrapped round her waist and shoulders (this makeshift armour exposed her stomach, which boasted a set of muscles fit for a man). Her hair was woven into long, thick, felt-like dreadlocks, and her round, high-cheekboned face was covered in white warpaint that imitated the outline of a skull - so that she appeared to have two rows of teeth, and her eyes burned fiercely out of the sunken, empty sockets.  
  
'Hey you milk-drinkers,' she said, resting one hand on her hip and stroking the hilt of a jagged, greenish war axe with the other. 'This is a toll road. Your money or your life'.  
  
'You n'wah should know better than demand your toll from the Companions,' Athis said icily as he drew his blade.  
  
'Yeah!' Torvar cried out, the battle zeal making him forget about any offence at Athis. 'Cause we are... always broke!'  
  
'That was not what I meant,' the Dunmer remarked over his shoulder, at the same time managing to block the Redguard's first blow.  
  
As, for once, the adventurers were not outnumbered, the struggle turned out to be brief. While the Redguard was grinding her axe against Athis' sword, Sveta glided behind her back and, screwing up her eyes, swooshed her blade high up into the air and then sank it deep into the springy mass of dreadlocks. Piercing the cushion-like hair, the blade entered the flesh of the Redguard's neck. With a faint gurgle, the bandit let go of her weapon and staggered forward, her blood washing over Athis' chest. The Dunmer stepped aside, letting the Redguard plop, face down, to the ground, and said breathlessly,  
  
'B'vek, girl, that was quick thinking!'  
  
The corners of Sveta's mouth jerked upwards; to hide the flush on her face, she pretended to busy herself with pulling out her sword. After she made a few unsuccessful, awkward attempts to tug the steel out of the dead bandit's blood-soaked mane, Athis stepped closer to her and gripped the stubborn weapon's hilt, hugging Sveta by the shoulders with his free arm, his breath hot and intimate on her cheek.   
  
She had already managed to lose count of the times when he touched her - and she touched him back; it seemed to be turning into something natural, almost instinctive, like putting one foot in front of the other while walking. But this did not mean that she had started taking the warmth of his flesh against hers for granted - on the contrary, it never failed to fill her with a sort of a trembling elation, a bit like what children had to feel on New Life's Eve... normal children, that is, with parents that were nothing like hers.   
  
Now, too, she baited her breath, waiting for the familiar tingle of wild, inexplicable joy - and it did not fail to follow, filling her whole, like gleeful laughter inside her veins; it rang louder, and louder, and the feeling grew more powerful, more definite, moulding into a single overwhelming, irresistible wish... Gods, how she wanted to kiss him. Really, really kiss him, the way people do in books - full on the mouth, first catching his lower lip between hers, and then - then...  
  
No. No, no, no. It was wrong. So very wrong. They were standing next to a dead body, their hands resting on a bloodied blade. What - what had gotten into her?! Was this some kind of Dibellan magic that poor, possessed Fjotra had used to alter her mind?.. Those were dirty, sinful thoughts she was having... But - but he was so unbearably handsome - and not as out of her reach as she had once thought. He was so close to her; all she had to do was turn her head a little...  
  
By the Three - not now, not after they had just killed a bandit! He would look absolutely ridiculous!.. But he couldn't help it; every time he put his arms round his little Scrib, his poor heart turned into a vat with brewing, fermenting sujamma berries, sending inebriating waves all through his body. Forget the bandit; he wanted to kiss Sveta - wanted it so badly that he felt he would scream if he did not get a taste of that soft pink mouth... But what if she took it the wrong way - after what she had been through? No, she would surely not - the man that had hurt her did not love her...  
  
'Darn you two! Stop having moments in the middle of a battle!' Torvar roared, grabbing the petrified, dazed Athis and Sveta by the arms and pulling them away from the dead Redguard. For their fight with bandits was not over - just as the warpainted, fur-clad woman had dropped dead, a small, furry, pointy-eared head had popped up in top of the tower, and a clawed grey paw had pulled back the string of a hunting bow.  
  
The Khajiit archer released his grip just as Athis and Sveta were both ready to give in to their wild impulse; the arrow zoomed past Torvar, grazing the skin on his bare, bracer-less arm, and dropped to the ground with a faint 'thunk'. Shaking off the dream-like haze that had enveloped him, Athis raced into the tower, sword on the ready, with Torvar panting in his rear and Sveta coming last, mentally scolding herself for having such horribly frivolous visions. But the catkin was faster than the three of them; in a swift, grey blur, he eluded the advancing warriors and slid out onto the bridge.  
  
  
***  
  
  
The narrow stone arch soared so high over the river rapids that their roar seemed a mere drowsy murmur. Having stumbled out of the tower after Athis and Torvar, Sveta staggered, blinded by the bright gleam of the sun over the open water and deafened by the rush of the wind in her ears. Her head swimming and her hear curling up into a tiny ball of ice, she looked down - and found herself unable to tear her eyes away from the sparkling blur of the water below. The whispering shimmer seemed to slide a little way upwards and then sink down again, in a rhythmical, mesmerizing dance, beckoning to leap down, into its icy, wet embrace...  
  
Sveta groped around for support, but her fingers grasped nothing but thin air; this sensation of emptiness all around her made her feet go numb and her stomach contract painfully; shivering from head to toe, she stood glued to one spot, feeling that if she made as much as one step forward, the whole world would come crushing down.  
  
She did finally look up from the frothing river beneath her feet - at the sound of a sharp, shrill, angry meow. Athis and Torvar had caught up with the Khajiit; pressing back his ears, the bandit whipped out a small curved dagger and tried to thrust it into the Dunmer's stomach; but Athis turned out quicker than the catkin and grabbed him by the wrist with his sword-free hand, while aiming a strike at his chest. Like the Dunmer, the bandit was wearing hide armour, with a protective steel plate strapped over his heart; but the rest of his upper body remained exposed (something which Sveta had had a bit of trouble getting used to while training with Athis). Having found a vulnerable spot between the catkin's ribs, Athis ripped through his furry hide with his blade and let go of his hand. A dark spot blooming on his side, the Khajiit swayed and fell off the bridge, into the terrible emptiness where he would be unable to land on his feet.  
  
Her eyes blank and unblinking, Sveta gazed at the bandit's fall for what seemed like an eternity. Meowing at the top of his voice, his tail bristling in terror, the catkin rushed through the air till the swelling waters consumed him and carried him off - a tiny grey speck swept by the current, way, way down below. She thought she heard more noises of battle, coming somewhere from another world - perhaps, more bandits had come running out of the second tower, and Athis and Torvar were now dealing with them. Crossing blades. Slicing. Hacking. Chopping... It did not matter. All that existed for Sveta was the endless, nauseating drop down into the greedy rapids, where body after body came floating down in heart-gripping, excruciating slow motion.  
  
'Sveta! Come here!'  
  
Athis' voice, loud, impatient, cut through Sveta's visions of falling, forever falling down, like a blade cuts through cloth. He had been the first to run across, with the big Nord following him in single file. But now Athis had somehow managed to switch places with Torvar (gods, her blood ran cold and her knees gave way when she tried to imagine the two men balancing on the very edge of the narrow bridge, where two could not walk abreast, and letting each other pass). He was slowly walking towards Sveta, hand outstretched, beckoning, encouraging.  
  
'You aren't afraid of heights, are you?' he cried over the whistling of the wind and the distant rush of the current. 'There is no need to be! I will not let you fall, I promise! Don't look down - look at me! And keep walking!'  
  
Slowly, very slowly, Sveta lifted her leaden foot and put it forward. The first step across the precipice. Then, another. Faltering. Swaying, like a child learning to walk. Forcing herself not to look at the foaming river that had devoured the Khajiit and the other bandits, and would surely devour her. Focusing on the familiar grey-skinned figure ahead of her.   
  
With each step forward that she took, Athis would step back, always keeping at the same distance, with his fingers brushing reassuringly against hers, and never taking his eyes off her face.  
  
'Almost there, little Scrib... You are almost there...'  
  
She could already see it, behind Athis' back. The second tower. So safe, so welcoming. And Torvar - smiling and waving at her. Just another step, and she would be off the bridge. Just another step.  
  
The arrow came whizzing from a rocky ledge a little way off from the second tower. While Athis and Torvar had dispatched most of the bandits holed up in the ruined keep, a few stragglers still remained in the surrounding wilds - and one of them had decided that this was the perfect time to shoot at the helpless Nord girl waddling across the bridge.  
  
Before she felt the pain, she saw the horror-struck look on Athis' face, and the frantic movement of his hand, trying to grab at her before it was too late - but it already was. The burning agony consuming her shoulder and spreading slowly through her whole body, she lost her balance and rushed down into nothingness.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Oh merciful Mother Kynareth, she was sure she would die! Bless the wild rush through the air - it had made her hold her breath just in time for the dive! Bless the water that had broken her fall! Bless the pain from hitting the surface of the river - and bless the pulsing fire that spread from her wound; if she could still feel pain, this meant she was alive!  
  
Shivering, gasping for breath, Sveta pulled herself onto a wet, slippery black rock that the current had thrashed her against - and let out a high-pitched squeak. Just past the rock, the torrent of water plummeted down in a roaring waterfall. If she tried to let go now, she would surely be dragged off by the current - and she did not dare try her luck for a second time.  
  
'Sveta! Sve... ta!'  
  
The ashen-hoarse, desperate call pierced her heart like a dagger. Tightening her grip on the rock, Sveta turned her head - and shut her eyes tightly to blink off scorching tears.  
  
Athis must have leapt in after her - he was now splashing wildly in the waves with his hands and feet, struggling to keep afloat, carried by the river's unstoppable force towards the waterfall; his head bobbed up and down in the icy waves, eyes bulging, mouth opening and closing, spitting out water... It would have looked comical if it wasn't so terrifying.  
  
'Swim towards me! Swim towards the rock!' Sveta called out, straining herself to raise her voice to its loudest.  
  
'I... I can't...' he coughed, drifting helplessly closer and closer to the swirl of raging white foam. 'I... can't swim!'  
  
Sveta's heart skipped a beat. Oh dear gods. She had never thought she'd say that. She had never thought she could sound so much like Athis...  
  
'You fool! Why did you jump in?!'  
  
'I promised I wouldn't let you fall!' Athis spluttered defensively.  
  
'Well, I won't let you fall either!' Sveta called back, her eyes narrowing. Oh dear, she did believe she had a plan. And what a wonderful plan it was - it beat Athis clinging on to the rock with her any day! By the Divines, was she really so resourceful?  
  
Curiously enough, together with the scorching pain from the arrow - which still remained in her wound, though part of it had broken off in the fall - Sveta had felt a sudden surge of magical energy. Perhaps the bandit had coated the arrowtip in some kind of homebrew poison, which, together with some nasty, damaging effect, happened to increase the target's magicka. She had spent enough time running errands for Arcadia and Farengar to know that this sometimes happened with impure mixtures. Well, she just might be able to use this little side effect to her advantage.  
  
With a little effort, Sveta tore her uninjured arm off the rock, reached forward and, screwing up her eyes, let the palm of her hand drown in a bright blue glow. It steadily grew brighter and brighter, separating itself from her quivering fingertips and spreading in all directions - till it swelled into a shimmering, ghostly wall, directly in front of Athis. This barrier, about as tall as Sveta herself and no wider than the length of her arm, blocked the current, allowing the Dunmer to catch his breath and find a foothold on the river's bottom.  
  
'I will shift... the Ward... little... by little...' Sveta wheezed; Athis looked at her apprehensively, as colour had rapidly begun draining from her face - keeping the magical wall up must have taken up all of her strength, and she still had to hold on to her rock and endure the pain in her shoulder. 'And... you... will... wade... to... sa... safety...'  
  
'What about you?' he asked, his eyes welling up with salty, gleaming droplets at the sight of Sveta's expression.   
  
But she had already prepared to cast a new Ward a few inches to the right of the current one - so he had no choice but to obey her groan-like command and splash through the still water a few steps towards the bank.  
  
Sweet Kynareth, the pain was growing unbearable. Every sinew in her arm was twisting and screaming noiselessly - but she had to hold on. She had to keep casting. To move the Ward so that it would always stay in front of Athis, calming the angry rapids around him, allowing his to trudge heavily through the mass of water to firm ground.   
  
Just like back on the bridge, she summoned all her strength for each new step of this endless journey - even though now it was not her that was making it. Inch by inch. Closer and closer. Almost... almost there. One last little effort... Finally, Athis climbed ashore and threw himself on the ground, panting heavily. He did it. They did it. Gods, she was so tired. Drained. If she just... let go...  
  
'SVETA, NO!' Athis screamed, staggering to his feet, his body suddenly gripped by piercing, benumbing cold - which had nothing to do with wading through the river.  
  
'I am sorry, my love,' Sveta breathed, barely moving her stiff, purple-tinted lips. Surely, he would not hear her over the roar of the raging waters - but she was too worn out to care. 'I guess I am not strong enough, after all...'  
  
And with a small, apologetic smile, she let go of the rock and slipped away into the milky, frothing clutches of the waterfall.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some references to Sveta's ancestors, the Nerevarine and her husband, who are part of a story arc of their own - which, in a way, mirrors Sveta's tale, for Ignis the Hapless, as she was known during her early days on Vvardenfell, was just as blundering and confused as her descendant before she embraced her destiny as Azura's Chosen.

This didn't make any sense. If she had just fallen down a waterfall, she would have to be somewhere further downstream, at the base of those jutting grey rocks - not back next to Valtheim Towers. Unless, of course, Torvar - or her dear, dear Athis - had fished her out of the river while she was unconscious. But if so, where were they? She could not see them anywhere - the ruins seemed completely deserted. And eerily quiet, too; even the voice of the rapids was silenced.  
  
Her heart fluttering in apprehension, Sveta stepped inside one of the twin towers and looked around, a small frown creasing her forehead. This was so... bizarre. As far as she could recall, when they raced through it for the first time, the tower had been plunged into greyish murk, thinned a little in places by blurry sun beams streaming in through the narrow, slit-like windows - but now everything inside it was lit up by an even, pale glow, like the that wakes you up on the first morning of winter, after everything has been veiled overnight by the soft, thick mantle of snow. And still, Athis and Torvar were nowhere to be seen. They... they couldn't be waiting for her on the other side of that awful bridge, could they?  
  
Swivelling her head around in silent confusion, Sveta reached the tower's second floor and braced herself for the first step across the precipice. But when, fists clenched and teeth gritted, she dared to glance ahead, she gasped in surprise and unclasped her clammy fingers.  
  
Just like the tower behind her back, the bridge had changed. It had suddenly, inexplicably, become broader, and... sturdier, somehow - with gleaming metallic railing running along its sides. But this was not all - the horrifying emptiness below the bridge's arch was now filled with soft clouds, which resembled gigantic tufts of cotton wool - or... or the soft, fluffy down of some enormous bird - and were tinted with all possible shades of gold, and pink, and tenderest lilac.  
  
There was something soothing about the way they floated beneath her feet, shifting, swirling, melting into one another - and as Sveta stood on the bridge, gazing down at the creamy, fuzzy shapes, she felt the fear of heights release its stifling grip, and her lungs, which had been crammed inside a spiky metal cage, were suddenly set free. She was able to breathe, truly breathe - and breathe she did, filling her chest almost to bursting point with the sweet, cool breeze. This long, greedy intake of the crisp air made Sveta spread out her shoulders, and throw her head up high, while her back tingled... in a very odd, curious sort of way, almost as if... as if it was sprouting wings. She was not afraid. She could cross the bridge. And she would cross the bridge - she would run, no, fly to the other bank of the river in a single heartbeat...  
  
'Errr... You can't go across'.  
  
Now, where did that elven fellow come from? He had to be one of the bandits - even though she could not see any weapons either in his hand or attached to his belt. He did not appear too aggressive, either - he just stood there, blocking her way, his arms spread like a bird's wings... Wait a second - was he... was he floating? Oh dear gods, he was! Hovering in the air about an inch above the bridge! And his face, his eyes, his hair, the threadbare shirt with puffed sleeves that he was wearing, beneath a scratched,  dented metal cuirass - all was... faded. As though someone had started working on his portrait, and mixed every single paint with a generous scoop of white. His skin was almost as pale as a human's, and his eyes, just like the long, untidy bangs dancing over them, and the sharp little goatee on the tip of his chin, were dirty-pink.  
  
'You can't go across,' he repeated, gliding closer to Sveta - who staggered backwards, staring fixedly on the empty space beneath the soles of his travel-worn boots. 'It's too early'.  
  
'Too early for what?' she asked faintly. 'Who... who are you?'  
  
'Ah, a conversation,' he nodded with a smug smirk. 'I can do that. A perfect way to stall while your friends are pulling you out of the water. Come - have a seat'.  
  
He waved his hand casually through the air, and part of the railing dissolved into thin air, allowing him to lower himself onto the edge of the bridge - not quite sitting down, but rather floating in a sitting position, dangling his legs over the clouds.  
  
'Mind the wings'.  
  
'The - what?' Sveta choked, slanting her eyes to look over her shoulder - and grabbed at her own head in mute disbelief.  
  
She had sprouted wings, after all - large and webbed like a dragon's, each ending in a curved, gleaming claw. Her fingers still clawing her temples, her heart still numb with disbelief, she tried to move the wings - and they obeyed, spreading out and folding again, flashing a dazzling gold in the sunlight, following each of her mental commands with the same ease as her arms or legs did. After giving them a few cautious flaps, Sveta pressed them against her back and sat down next to the faded elf.  
  
'What's - what's g-going on?' she stammered. 'Is this some k-kind of dream?'  
  
He shrugged carelessly.  
  
'You could call it that. You do look a bit as if you are asleep, back there... way down below... If one does not look close enough, that is...'  
  
Seeing the blank, uncomprehending look on her face, he cocked his head to one side and asked mischievously,  
  
'Wanna see for yourself?'  
  
She nodded weakly. The elf gave her a reassuring wink and waved his hand again. At his command, two of the clouds nearest to them crawled apart, revealing a small circle of colour, as though Sveta and her strange companion were gazing out into the street through a single clean spot on a window that had fogged over. Sveta craned her neck, trying her best to make out what lay in the gap between the clouds - and when she did, she clapped her hands against her mouth and rounded her eyes till they began to ache.  
  
She saw herself, drifting in the still, drowsy waters a little way below the waterfall. Wet, white, oversized miner's shirt clinging on to her body in tight, sticky folds and bloating into half-transparent bubbles. Fair, silver-streaked hair spreading out round her head in a halo of seaweed. Ghastly white, upturned face frozen in an expressionless mask... And the wound in her shoulder seeping with rich, billowing crimson.  
  
It took Sveta colossal effort to make her lips move.  
  
'Am I... dead?' she asked as the image of her body clouded over again. She spoke so quietly that she could barely hear her own voice - but the elf didn't have to make out the words to understand.  
  
'Not yet you aren't,' he said brightly. 'You missed all those nasty rocks on your way down the waterfall - so no fractured skulls to worry about. All you have to deal with right now is that arrow stuck in your shoulder, and lungs full of water. But I am sure your - uh, what are they called again? Never could get the hang of all those outlander words - Shield Brothers will take care of you when they find you. Especially that Athis fella. If you ask me, he alone can stand for forty thousand Shield Brothers...'  
  
Sveta opened and shut her mouth and pressed her hand against her heart - as though to shield it from the elf's penetrating gaze. How he could possibly know about Athis? About what had happened to her after her fall? He had never answered one of her very first questions. He had never told her who he was...  
  
While the flabbergasted little Nord was batting her eyelashes furiously, dazed by the whirl of thoughts racing through her head, the elf went on, his expression immovably calm and slightly teasing,  
  
'And while they are on their way, you have me,' he leaned back and stretched himself languidly, 'To keep you company'.  
  
Shaking her head to make the chaotic swarm of thoughts inside it settle a little, Sveta eyed the elf intently, her gaze sliding from his tattered finery to his pointy beard and sly grin and back again. Her eyebrows slowly slid downwards, her thoughtful frown casting a dark shadow over her eyes, as she recollected the old stories she had read in books, about - about people going mad.  
  
'You... You aren't Sheogorath...' she mumbled, her voice little more than a stifled squeak. '...Are you?'  
  
The corners of the elf's mouth slid wide apart, almost making his face split.  
  
'Oh, dear child,' he chuckled, 'You do this old trouble-maker too much honour - promoting him to the very Corner of the House! No, I am merely a humble spirit that left the halls of Azura to keep your soul on this side of the bridge for as long as possible. I am not exactly allowed to do stuff like this - but I was never one for rules... Besides,' he lifted his index finger with an air of utmost importance, 'Besides you don't want to go across. Trust me. You don't. Not yet. You are far too important for the mortal world to leave it so soon'.  
  
'I am?' Sveta echoed, flushing. It was rather odd that she could feel the blush scorch her cheeks - after all, her body was down below, in the river... But after thinking it over for a moment, she decided that the best way to deal with this vision... dream... whatever it was... was just to accept what was happening, and hear out what the elf had to say.  
  
'Those wings behind your back,' he murmured through his broad grin, prodding Sveta with a faded, apparently once ashen-grey finger, 'They are here for a reason. Can't tell you which reason, though. I am a bit vague on that - but even if I wasn't, I would hate to spoil the surprise... Suffice to say, you mean to Nirn almost as much as you do to Athis... And that is something... Though that is not the only reason why I decided to pop up in your path'.  
  
Sveta sat in silence, the reflections of the clouds swirling inside her pupils. But a few weeks ago, she would have dismissed the elf's words as a vain figment of her imagination, knowing that a pathetic little milk-drinker like herself could not possibly matter in the large scheme of things. But now - now she was actually ready to take this little message seriously. What if there was some heroic deed in store for her, after all? What if she had a chance to redeem herself before her ancestors?..  
  
'You don't need to redeem yourself before me, that's for sure,' the elf remarked softly. 'I am plenty proud of you as it is'.  
  
Sveta started. He - he could read her thoughts, too? And what in gods' name was he talking about?  
  
'Told you there was another reason for my stalling,' the elf said, floating up from the bridge. 'Another demonstration, coming up!'  
  
Pressing his arms against his body like a diver preparing for a plunge, he whizzed through the air, breaking through the cloud puffs, stirring and blending them together - till they took shape of a tall, milky white figure. A Nordic warrior with flowing braided hair and beard, gazing proudly straight ahead, just like Sveta remembered him from a painting in her family home in Bruma.  
  
'That's - that's Bran Fire-Eye!' she cried out excitedly. 'My father's bloodline starts with him!'  
  
'It sure does,' the elf nodded, wrapping his arm round the cloud image's shoulder. 'And I know that the painter who immortalized him did his homework and found out the story about Bran's fiery eyes'.  
  
Sveta nodded, amazed, once again, at how much the 'humble spirit' knew about her - and her family.  
  
'He was half-Dunmer,' she said.  
  
The elf smacked the cloud formation on the head.  
  
'B'vek, so he was! Only the dunderhead preferred to forget it as soon as he came of age. Left Vvardenfell for Skyrim and cut off all ties with the family. Shortened his name, too; apparently, "Branas Llendo" sounded way too Dark-Elven for him...'  
  
The elf smiled bitterly.  
  
'...He said that he wanted to be a normal Nord; that it shamed him to have ash in his blood...'  
  
Here, the pale, ghostly face suddenly grew twisted, its lines deepening - as though the elf was holding back tears.  
  
'I missed him so much, you know... His mother did, too, only she did not show it. But by the Three, I could see the pain in her eyes, every minute of every day that we had to live without our little boy... Our son...'  
  
The wispy image of the Nord slowly melted away, and the elf remained suspended in mid-air, his eyes cast down, his face barely visible through the strands of faded red hair.  
  
'She tried to organize some crazy expedition to Akavir to distract herself - and when she came back, the Red Year was in its full rage. And I had already joined this jolly place... Curled up under a nice, thick blanket of ash, and never woke up again... And even after that, my stubborn oaf of a son refused to pay me a visit - went to Sovngarde when his time came...'  
  
He looked up at Sveta and, seeing her chin and lips tremble, forced a faltering, apologetic laugh.  
  
'Hey... Sorry about that. I wasn't trying to scare or upset you. Just got a little bit carried away with my, uh, reminiscences. The way grandfathers often do. And I am sort of your grandfather - skip all the "great"s, there has never been anything great about me... Except, perhaps, for the way I loved my Ignis...'  
  
'That's - that's Bran's mother, right?.. Your wife?' Sveta asked, sounding a little breathless because of her heart's frenzied flutter.  
  
By the gods, this spirit had to be her Dunmeri ancestor! The father of the fabled Bran, the one who had given him those ruby-red eyes! She had never dreamt of meeting him... True, this was nothing but a vision, and he was already dead - perished when the Red Mountain erupted, the poor, dear soul - but still... oh dear goodness! She was talking to him face to face!  
  
Slowly, like a ray of moonlight creeping across the ceiling of a darkened room, the smile returned to the elf's face, and his pale eyes grew wistful and dreamy, even appearing to regain some of their former rich red colour - Sveta had caught a glimpse of an expression like his a few times, when she was alone with Athis, and he thought that she was not looking.  
  
'Aye, child - my wife and my life, to quote badly written poetry. She looked a lot like you back in the day...' he jerked his shoulder slightly, 'Not too surprising, I suppose; Bran's descendants were marrying Nords for generations, and now you have no trace of my kind's influence left in your looks. You are almost the exact copy of your purely Nordic great-something-grandmother. Same flaxen hair, same grey eyes... Although when she was embarrassed, she preferred to throw things at people instead of blushing like you do...'  
  
The spirit drew a deep sigh and went on, talking to himself as much as to Sveta,  
  
'She would chew on her hair while she was thinking - and half-shut her eyes in pleasure when listening to my kinsmen's voices... my own included, first and foremost. She was an outstanding warrior, which earned her the respect of the most distrustful councilors of Great House Redoran - but she had a horrible sense of direction; kept losing her way in the wilderness while going on quests, and could wander in circles round the same mushroom tree for hours on end. She loved watching the street lanterns light up in the evening, and making silly faces behind the backs of the Ordinators. She covered her face with grey war paint to make her look more like one of my people. She had the oddest, most vivid dreams I had ever heard about - '  
  
The elf cut himself short, freezing in a tense, intent pose, as though listening to something.  
  
'They are trying to revive you, child,' he said, gliding back to the bridge. 'It is time for you to go back. Who knows, perhaps you will get to meet Ignis one day - I can sense that she is still alive... getting cured from Corprus must do wonders to push back old age. If you do cross paths with her - tell her I love her, will you?'  
  
'Will I ever meet you again?' Sveta asked pleadingly. 'I would love to hear more about my ancestors...'  
  
He shook his head with a soft, tender smile.  
  
'I would have loved to become your Ancestor Guardian - but alas, as they say in posh Wayrest plays, there is too little Dunmer blood in you. And I know almost for certain that you have a nice, warm spot reserved for you in Sovngarde - so no seeing me again for you... Unless you become suspended between life and death again. But you can name one of your children after me, if you like - the handsome one... Though I am sure they are all going to be handsome'.  
  
Sveta smiled - both to respond to his joking tone and to conceal her embarrassment at the mention of Sovngarde... and handsome children.  
  
'You never did tell me your name...'  
  
He bent forward in a deep, slightly mocking bow, his hair sweeping across the nearest cloud.  
  
'Nels. Nels Llendo, reformed highwaymer and the friendliest wilderness guide in Vvardenfell, at your service.'  
  
She wanted to respond to his greeting, saying something about it being a pleasure to meet him - but just as she opened her mouth, the bridge crumbled away, and she whooshed down, through the billowing clouds, away from the smiling and waving Nels, back to where the waterfall raged and roared, and the air smelled of pine tar and mountain flowers, and anxious voices called her name...  
  
  
***  
  
  
'You goddamn s'wit!' Athis screamed, the veins in his neck swelling as though he had thick ropes running beneath his skin. 'Make her breathe!'  
  
'I am trying!' Torvar snarled back, bear-like, as he stopped pushing at Sveta's chest for a moment. 'You can come over here and help! Without losing control and bursting into tears like you did last time!'  
  
'I did not burst into tears!' the Dunmer protested in fierce indignation. 'I... I just can't look her in the face!'  
  
Torvar would not understand. He had been up in the tower, dealing with the remaining bandits, while Athis had... had betrayed Sveta. Yes, that was what it was. Betrayal. He had promised her he would not let her fall - and yet, moments later, he had done the exact opposite. Twice. Twice! While Sveta had sacrificed herself to save his worthless hide.  
  
His heart twisted into a bleeding, pulsing lump each time he remembered his own helplessness, as he splashed about in the water like a newborn, blind pup... pathetic, useless, losing a battle with what - with water! Something which was not even alive, something which did not even have a definite shape!  
  
Why, oh why had he never learned to swim? Growing up in a dry, reddish-grey wasteland, where the only thing you could possibly swim in were the torrents of lava, he had never felt the need for this skill; and when he had come to Skyrim, with her wide forest rivers and icy mountain streams, he, foolishly, unforgivably proud, had done his best to conceal that he was unable to do what most Nords learned as children. A child could have saved Sveta - but he had let her slip away. And her face, frozen into a perfectly beautiful white mask, with not a breath escaping her lips, was a reminder of that. Of his shameful weakness. His betrayal. He would never bring himself to look at it for a second time...  
  
And he didn't have to. No matter how far away he stepped from Sveta, no matter how hard he rubbed his eyes, the image of his beloved little Scrib still remained with him. Branded into the reverse side of his eyelids, scorching his mind, eating through his heart like acid. By the Three, he could still see those closed eyes, the soft curve of the eyelids not disturbed by the flutter that would have shown that she was alive and merely asleep, dreaming. He could still see the tightly pursed, hard, cold mouth, with its corners pulled down - so unlike the precious butterfly smile that had filled him with an overpowering urge to kiss Sveta on the lips. He could still see the tangled mass of golden hair, heavy and soggy with water, and the tiny droplets shimmering on her white cheeks and forehead. He could still see the scarlet gash of her wound, carelessly bandaged with a strip ripped off her own sleeve, already half-torn (it was Torvar who had pulled out the arrowtip, for Athis' hands had been trembling uncontrollably). He could still see the painfully evident, unquestionable proof that he had failed to keep one small, simple promise. To be there for Sveta when she needed him.  
  
'Stop being a drama Jarl!' Torvar persisted. 'My arms are getting tired - it's your turn to pump the water out of her! If you don't get here right now, I swear I will give her mouth-to-mouth!'  
  
Slowly, reluctantly, Athis came up to where Torvar was crouching, and replaced him at Sveta's side. He had to shut his eyes as he pressed his interwoven fingers against her chest, jerking his head to try and chase off the ghostly vision of her frozen features; his breath was uneven and rasping, as though, at any moment, he would start coughing and spit out a dark, slimy clot of blood. He kept pushing at Sveta's chest, blindly, not knowing if his efforts were doing any good - till suddenly, a loud spluttering noise made him tear his eyelids apart.  
  
She was regaining consciousness. In loud, desperate gasps, life was returning to his little Scrib's body. She was no longer a still, cold, lifeless shade out of a nightmare - she was moving. By Nerevar, she was actually moving! It could have been a little bit morbid - not that he gave a damn - but the sight of her arms twitching convulsively and muddy water streaming out of her mouth filled Athis with the same happy, bubbly warmth that he had seen in the eyes of young mothers watching their toddlers waddle about on their chubby, unsteady little feet.  
  
Dazed, almost not daring to believe his own eyes, he crawled a few inches away from Sveta, allowing her to sit up. After a few violent retching spasms, which tore savagely at her whole body, she managed to look up at him... And yet again, there was no trace of anger in her shimmering grey eyes; no reproach, no disgust at his ineptitude. Just tenderness, and affection, and joy...  
  
'Don't look at me like that, you stupid Scrib!' he roared, his nostrils flaring - and then, scrambled to his feet and ran off a little way along the bank, leaving Torvar take care of the awakened Sveta.  
  
  
***  
  
  
He had perched himself on a fallen log, further downstream, pressing his burning forehead against his knees, which he hugged tightly with his arms. Through the mane of copper hair, which was still undone, flowing down his twitching shoulders, the grey tips of his ears peeked slightly, barely catching the muffled sounds carried to him by the wind.  
  
Somewhere back there, beyond the wall of darkness that marked the borders of his tiny world, Torvar and Sveta were laughing. Before that, he had heard the big Nord blundering, bear-like, through the undergrowth, picking blisterwort mushrooms and mountain flowers and gathering firewood. He had called out to his Dunmer friend, in a merry, carefree voice,  
  
'Ho there! I'm gonna make a fire and brew Scrib a potion in one of my must-have-travel-ale-mugs! Wanna lend a hand?'  
  
But Athis had pretended not to hear him.  
  
And now, he could smell the sharp whiff of smoke, mixing in with the heady scents of the forest, and hear loud, joyful voices - a sound that made his heart thump painfully against his ribs. B'vek, why did he have to be so worthless?!  
  
'Are you going to be very mad at me if I say that you remind me of child... just a tiny bit?'  
  
Athis started, almost falling off the log. He had gotten so carried away by the extremely labour-consuming task of hating himself, that he had not heard the laughter die down and the dry moss creak just behind his back. Sveta, now with a little more colour in her face and her wet hair tied back into a lopsided knot, was standing in front of him - smiling again, curse her!  
  
'I should not have let you fall,' he said stubbornly, jerking his head to avoid her silvery gaze.  
  
She lowered herself at his side and, taking his hand in hers, traced her fingertips gently along his bulging veins.  
  
'You jumped in after me. You risked your life. And I am thankful for that... It is so, so very true that you alone can stand for forty thousand Shield Brothers...'  
  
Athis turned to face her again, with a puzzled frown.  
  
'Oh, never mind that,' Sveta giggled quietly. 'It's just an odd dream that I had. I... I just wanted to tell you that you shouldn't be so ashamed of not knowing how to swim. There is nothing shameful about not knowing things, or not being able to do them. I know that now. You see...' she made a faltering, unobtrusive attempt to nestle closer to Athis; he did not push her away. 'When Torvar made that potion for me - which was awfully kind of him, filling his travel mug with the thick, icky brew - and my mind cleared a little, I realized that during my fall, I had lost my journal. I used to carry it with me at all times, and write down...' she paused, blushing, 'Different... things... I thought I would cry because of this, like I usually do - but I did not. Because it dawned on me that the journal was written by a different person. A different me. A me that was constantly ashamed of herself because there were so many things she could not do, or did not do properly. But over these past few months, she has found people who taught her a few of the things that she thought she'd never cope with. You taught her to be brave, and little Fjotra taught her to be confident, and a certain long-dead highwaymer taught her to embrace her dreams... And she disappeared, making way for a new me. This me. I still don't know many things, but I am no longer ashamed - because I know that I can learn them in time...'  
  
'Is this some kind of high-strung, roundabout way of offering me swimming lessons?' Athis asked abruptly, feeling the corners of his mouth gliding up.  
  
She cast her eyes down, fingering the hem of her shirt.  
  
'It's not just about swimming,' she mumbled quietly.  
  
He pressed himself against her and put his arm round her shoulders.  
  
'I know,' he breathed softly, revelling in the tingle of her hair against his cheek. 'You have already taught me a lot, Sveta... I - ' he paused for a moment, wondering if Sveta could feel his heart thrashing against the folds of her shirt, 'I am glad that I met you'.  
  
She let out a small, happy sniff.  
  
'Thank you... I am glad that I met you, too...'  
  
'Wait a second...' Athis said, shifting away from her, 'Have you been walking around in the same wet shirt all this time?'  
  
She bit into her lower lip.  
  
'I... I couldn't undress in front of Torvar... And even if I undressed while he was away... he would come back and see me in my smallclothes... And if he gave me his armour to wear, he'd be in his smallclothes, too... And now the shirt has almost dried up, anyway...'  
  
'Bloody nonsense!' Athis exclaimed. 'Do you want to catch a fever, you brainless little n'wah?! I am getting you back to the campfire - and you are taking this shirt off! Or - or I will have to tear it off for you!'  
  
For a moment, they both froze, processing that mental image - and that was when the three small, black eyes, watching them from the thicket, flashed with a feral, hungry flame. It was time to attack.


	6. Chapter 6

It broke through the web of dry, crackling branches with such an overpowering, sudden force, that the stunned little Scrib did not even have the strength to scream. She just clung on to Athis in stupefied silence as the towering dark shadow loomed over them, and they were smothered by a dense wave of rank, rotting breath.  
  
The Dunmer stroked her forearm reassuringly, and then leapt off the log, baring his sword, which had remained strapped to his side throughout the whole ordeal with jumping into the river.   
  
Thank the Three for this, he thought to himself, showing the glistening tips of his teeth in a snarl that mimicked the drooling, fanged leer of his hairy adversary. He could not swim, that was true - but a big stupid troll, he could handle. Well, actually it had been a while since he tackled one of those creatures - but still. At least here, he would not fail miserably. He would make things right after that shameful waterfall fiasco. For all her heartwarming speeches, he still felt that he owed Sveta a debt; and the sooner he repaid it, the better.  
  
The creature raised one of its massive, bristling paws for a crushing sweep - but within what must have been a fraction of a second, Athis dashed forward and sliced at the tender, less gnarled and hairy flesh of the armpit that it had exposed. The troll fell back, wailing in pain, and Athis watched it with narrowed eyes, smirking,  
  
'Like I always tell Torvar: I can get in and out before you can make one swing'.  
  
He began to advance at the creature, confident that his first blow had tipped the scales of the battle in his favour - but it seemed that this was not quite the case. During the little pause Athis had taken to gloat, the thick, oozing dark-red line drawn across the troll's flesh had dissolved, as though wiped off by an invisible sponge. The swaying, bulky form had straightened up, with a short, grunting sound, now looking even more menacing than before - and prepared to trample over the insolent Dunmer that had dared to sting it with his flashing steel.  
  
Athis glared unblinkingly at the troll, ready to strike at any moment - and silently cursing himself for forgetting that the damned beasts regenerated when wounded. Presently, feeling that the time was right, he plunged forward once again - but was stopped by the steel grip of two long, black, hairy paws that grabbed him by the shoulders, while the tip of his sword barely reached the creature's belly. They struggled for a quite a while, panting and groaning; Athis was straining to reach forward and wound the troll, while the creature itself was keeping him at a safe distance - dear gods, how could its arms be so long?! - and pressing at his shoulders, forcing him to bend his knees, so it could crush him down, breaking those thin, fragile elven bones, cracking that angular, elongated skull, ripping the soft grey flesh and drawing out the glistening, tasty intestines...  
  
Sveta looked on at the scene in dumbfounded silence, feeling painfully small and helpless. She had to do something - but she couldn't... Torvar had fished her sword out together with her, but it was back at their makeshift campsite - and without it, she was just a quivering little whelp huddled up on a mossy log and watching the... the mer she loved... being pushed down to the ground by a wilderness monster.   
  
No, no, no; she could not be thinking like this! Not after she had just started believing in herself! Why, even that boy Erik had somehow managed to save Torvar from a sabre cat - what made her any worse than him? Yes, but again: Erik had that rusty old sword he had... borrowed from his father; while she was unarmed! And she didn't know any offensive magic! Or did she?  
  
Her heart whooshing down like a stone rolling off the steep side of a mountain, she suddenly found her mind flooded by a memory that must have been lost in all the terrifying chaos of that day when her carriage was attacked by Imperial soldiers, mistaking her and her mother's servants for Stormcloak reinforcements, and she was dragged off to an execution in Helgen.  
  
***  
  
  
 _The rusty cage door creaks ajar, and Sveta, stuffed inside itchy, uncomfortable armour, with dark circles of sweat spreading slowly beneath her armpits, forces herself to look inside. The body - a young male human dressed in threadbare, blood-splattered pale-blue mage robes - has barely begun to smell; but she still claws at her mouth with one hand and at her tbroat with another, barely able to suppress a jerking, gagging fit of nausea.  
  
'Ah, so you have managed to get it open, have you?' the old torturer drawls behind her back, his lazily calm, slightly nasal voice sending a chill up her poor, aching spine. 'I lost the key ages ago; the fellow screamed for days...'  
  
He is interrupted by another voice, loud and impatient and slightly discomforted. Hadvar. The brave, kind soldier that was good enough to slap her back to her senses while she was squatting next to a half-crumbled stone wall, her eyes glassy and bulging, listening to the dragon roar over her head and whimpering faintly. The generous soul that deigned to take pity on a worthless milk-drinker like herself, while all the true Stormcloak warriors mocked her for her blubbering and escaped without her. But now she can sense that even he, so patient, so tolerant, is beginning to get weary of her utter helplessness.  
  
'Come on!' he urges. 'Grab anything of use and let's go! The place is falling apart round our ears - we can't stay much longer!'  
  
She breathes in, with a tiny squeaky moan, and stares at the dead mage. Must... loot... the corpse... Must... show... Hadvar... she... is... not... afraid... But - but it's a dead body! The body of someone who... who screamed for days before Arkay ended his suffering! Her head rings with the shrill echo of that long since silenced scream, and she feels that it will burst if she touches the body - if she as much as brushes her fingertips against that limp ragdoll arm, bent awkwardly in the elbow, or that sunken chest, so frightfully, frightfully still... or especially that face, with dim, empty eyes...  
  
Fortunately for her, her gaze falls on a small, battered tome in bluish binding, tossed carelessly next to the corpse. So she won't have to touch a dead body, after all!  
  
As the stretches her quivering fingers forward to grasp the book and pull it closer to herself, she hears the torturer comment,  
  
'Ah, this is some sort of basic Destruction spell tome - fell out of the fellows robes when we put him inside the cage. I wanted to confiscate it first, but our, uh, procedures left the wimp so weakened that he did not have it in him to take it and use it! Quite amusing, really'.  
  
Sveta swallows, almost ready to jerk her hand back - but suppresses her fear and revulsion at the very last moment and, screwing up her eyes, grips the book tightly by the spine and sweeps it out of the cage. Then, the back of her head aching as she feels Hadvar eyeing her impatiently, she forces her eyelids apart and throws the book open at a random page. As she passes her index finger across the crinkled parchment, frowning at the miniscule letters weaving themselves into the shape of a human hand, her flesh begins to tingle, and she hears a faint crackling sound, like the one woolen clothes make sometimes when you rub them against something.   
  
The tingle grows stronger, spreading from one finger across Sveta's entire hand, and the further up her arm, which now feels as though it has fallen asleep and then woken up again. With every passing second, a myriad of tiny, invisible needles sinks deeper and deeper into her flesh; she cries out and drops the book - and it is instantly consumed by a humming, purple aura of dazzling light, which soon fades away, not leaving behind a single speck of ash, a fragment of a page. The needles have grown sharper than ever; the unpleasant tingle has now turned into real pain, which brings hot, thick tears to Sveta's eyes - but just as she feels she can bear it no longer, the pain leaves her arm, bursting out in a blinding blast of lightning. Her very first Destruction spell._  
  
  
***  
  
  
The memory rushed through Sveta's mind like a tidal wave, leaving her gasping and blinking groggily. She had completely forgotten that she had learned how to cast lightning - and she would have never, ever dreamt of using that spell anyway. The mere thought of shock magic tearing its way out of her fingertips would have made her sob in terror. Not now, though. Not when her Athis depended on her.  
  
She flexed her fingers, eyes fixed on the troll, and, with a long, placating breath, tried to think of thunderstorms - those awe-inspiring displays of Kynareth's wrath that had always both horrified and mesmerized her. If she tried hard enough, she would be able to start a tiny thunderstorm in her hand - no, better in both hands, just to be on the safe side. She could do this - she just had to imagine this tiny, leaden, rumbling cloud swirling beneath her fingers, ready to let out its deadly sting...  
  
The troll howled loudly, its three black eyes darting madly back and forth, and released Athis, who straightened up and lifted his weapon, swaying slightly at the sharp smell of singed fur. The unbearably bright, sizzling whip that had lashed at the beast, just as it was beginning to overpower the Dunmer, coiled back for a few moments - but before the troll could fully come to its senses and restore some of its strength, it whizzed back again, wrapping itself round the creature's massive frame, stinging, burning deep through its thick hide and piercing its flesh. The troll whirled around on one spot, thrashing in agony, so that Athis had to step back in order not to be knocked off his feet by the flailing paws.   
  
All throughout the troll's dance of agony, the flaming, slit-like red eyes followed its every movement, and the grey hand never, not for a moment, eased its grip on the hilt of the readied sword. B'vek, little Sveta was surely full of surprises - he had had no idea she had such a good grasp of shock magic! And her spell was doing its job excellently - the raging lightning wounded the creature faster than it could regenerate, and soon, it would take Athis a single precise blow to finish it off. If he could just come closer, out of the reach of those wildly thrashing limbs...  
  
Athis was just preparing for his finishing strike when's Sveta's face suddenly twisted into a sour, childish grimace, and she lowered her hands. The glowing whip dissolved into thin air, with a farewell shower of blue sparks; and the troll, after staggering on one spot for a short while, gave a little grunt of surprise and relief and glanced around, seeking the source of the lightning that had stung it so cruelly. When it caught sight of Sveta, it tore apart its jaws, sticky with gooey drool, and raced towards the puny, pale, frightened human, pushing itself forward with its oversized arms.   
  
The hapless Scrib was so overwhelmed by the sight of the monster stampeding towards her that she remained chained to one spot, not moving an inch, her pinpoint pupils swimming in the silvery shimmer of her terrified eyes. In a colossal black whirlwind, the troll swept over her, determined not to fall back until its prey turned into a raw, mangled crimson carcass... But it had barely landed one blow when the green stillness of the forest was shattered by a hoarse battle cry - Athis had raced after the creature, and as it was getting ready to stomp Sveta into a pulp, leapt onto its back, hacking at it wildly with his sword. The great furry bulk toppled and leaned sideways, while Athis rolled back to the ground and, in flash after piercing flash, shredded the beast's black hide until the dark troll blood came raining over his hands and face.  
  
After the troll finally thudded onto the soft, springy blanket of moss, colouring it dirty red, the Dunmer caught his breath and bent over Sveta, who had slumped to the ground beneath the troll's weight, and was now sitting with her legs folded beneath her; her half-clenched left fist was wrapped in the soft, golden glow of healing magic and resting on her chest, which was rising and falling heavily; and her face was still pallid and distorted by shock.  
  
'Are you badly hurt?' Athis asked huskily, sinking to one knee and cupping his hands round Sveta's face. She smiled at his firm, hot touch, and stroked his wrist with her free hand, shuddering a little when she felt the moist blood splatters beneath her fingertips.  
  
'I am fine. I know the right spell'.  
  
He gave her one of his twitching, faint half-smiles, his fingers still lingering on her cheek. Upon his word, if he could, he would sit like this forever, feeling her soft skin, listening to her breath, drowning in the clear wintry lakes that were her eyes... Was this the time? The time he had kept putting off for so long? The time he told her..?  
  
His eyes filling with warm, rich red glow beneath lowered eyelids, he opened his mouth - but before he could give coherent shape to the thought that had been burning inside his poor, confused mind ever since little Scrib showed up in Jorvaskr, Sveta spoke first.  
  
'Athis...' she muttered chokingly, 'I am so, so sorry I stopped casting that lightning. I could have gotten you - us both - killed'.  
  
The angle of the Athis' eyebrows grew slightly sharper.  
  
'Whatever do you mean?' he asked gruffly. Damn it, why did he never get the chance - ?  
  
'I assumed you'd run out of magicka. It happens - there is nothing to apologize for'.  
  
Sveta shook her head, lifting her hand off the Dunmer's and passing it along her face.  
  
'I watched the troll - and then I thought... I thought destructive magic had to hurt more than being struck by a sword - and I could not go through with my casting... I,' she gulped a lump in her throat, just like in the good old days when Athis would yell at her during training, 'I just - '  
  
'You felt sorry - for a troll?' he asked, in blank disbelief, drawing back from her - as if to look her over from head to foot to check that his mind was not playing tricks on him.  
  
She nodded, locking her fingers on her knees and staring down at them, the tips of her ears flaring up guiltily as they peeked through her hair, which had loosened again during the fight with the troll.  
  
'It's... so awfully stupid of me...'  
  
Athis pulled himself closer to her again and said, half in jest, but with a very earnest look in his eyes,  
  
'Maybe it was. But leave calling you stupid to me, will you? I can be a fetcher to you, because that is how I am - but you have no right to. Not after that little speech you just gave me. You went on and on about how you are no longer ashamed of yourself - and now you are ashamed of having a big heart!'  
  
He paused, his sloping forehead creasing slightly, and strained to listen to the hum of thoughts inside his skull. The little Scrib had interrupted him just as he was about to pour out his soul - but he was Olivion-bent on bringing the subject back to where he had started, and be done with it once and for all. The only question was: how to phrase it better? How to tie it in to what he just said? He could try to imitate one of those smart bards, and go along the lines of,  
  
'And do you know why you have a big heart? Because there are actually two hearts inside your chest; you stole mine and added it to yours!'  
  
Or would that seem to strange? Too pretentious? Too distasteful? But surely, a mere, 'Oh, yes, and by the way: I love you' would be ridiculously inadequate?   
  
He could hear Sveta stammer out 'Thank you' after 'Thank you', mixing them in with a generous dose of you-are-too-kind-s - and brushed her off with an impatient nod. By the Three, would he ever be able to tell her at this rate?!  
  
It seemed that, in the finest traditions of his and Sveta's excruciatingly awkward, almost non-existent romance, he would certainly not be able to tell her today. For just at that moment - naturally! - they were, once again, interrupted. This time, by a loud cry, which was apparently coming from the direction on the campfire.   
  
Torvar.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Scrib was sure taking her sweet time, bringing that sulky elf back. Maybe she and Athis had finally gotten down to business?   
  
Torvar smirked to himself, scratching the small of his back. He had never seen his friend lose himself like this over any woman - he wondered if the elf had actually ever lain with someone at all. Well, if he had, this had to have been a long time ago - so, good for him. The fella sure needed to wind down.   
  
But while he was at it, somewhere out there in the woods, Torvar was gradually beginning to get bored. He picked up the mug he had used for Sveta's potion and twirled it around in his hands, staring idly at the slurping dregs of the thick, brownish liquid, with a withered blue petal or two sticking out in places.   
  
Yeah. He was bored, and with not a drop to drink, either! Well, sure, there was this water all around - but he wasn't talking about water! On the way to the Drunken Huntsman, Athis, seeing Torvar lick his lips at the mention of the shop's name, Athis had strictly forbidden him to stock up on any more... fuel. And now what was he supposed to do, all by his lonesome and with not a teensy weensy bottleling to keep him company?  
  
With a mournful sigh, Torvar set down the mug and rose from the stone where he had roosted, like a true monument to a bored Nord with no drink at hand. For want of anything else to do, he might as well stretch the old legs a little. He did not go too far when he heard a sudden rustle, deep in the thicket, followed by a couple of muffled grunts. So - that was where Athis and Scrib had gone to do their thing.  
  
'All right, all right, I won't disturb you!' Torvar said, raising his hands defensively into the air.  
The grunts grew slightly louder, appearing to move at a great speed to where Torvar stood - till finally, they turned into a deafening, hungry roar; the rustling undergrowth gave way, and out leapt two black forest trolls, snarling fiercely, plummeting their furry fists against their chests. Not something that Torvar had expected, for sure.  
  
'Talk about a beast with two backs,' the big Nord muttered, drawing his axe.  
  
And then, as the trolls began to close in on him, threads of saliva trailing down their hairy, gnarled chests, he hurried to add something more appropriate for battle,  
  
'Skyrim belongs to the Nords!.. or something'.  
  
That was the cry that made Sveta and Athis leap to their feet and dash, panting and bumping into one another, to where Sveta had left Torvar - all sentimental mushiness abandoned.  
  
  
***  
  
  
They were approaching the campfire when they caught sight of Torvar, cornered by two trolls just a little way further into the wilderness. Just like Athis, the Nord was dangerously close to being overwhelmed, as any wounds he managed to give the creatures with his axe faded to scars and scratches at a most frustrating speed.  
  
Her eyes rounding anxiously, Sveta raced ahead of Athis and blurted out that odd magical word that she had used in battle a few times before to make her adversaries stagger,  
  
'FUS!'  
  
As usual, her loud, gasping call made the air around her come alive; rippling and shimmering, it swelled into a half-transparent wave that rushed to the two trolls and crushed with all of its unstoppable force against their chests. But unlike the bandits and wolves Sveta had encountered previously, these creatures proved to be much more steadfast. They merely fell back for a fraction of a second, but remained firm on their feet - and when the liquid air trailed back, like an ebbing tide, they fell upon Torvar with renewed force.   
  
As the big Nord brandished his axe wildly, clumsily dodging the clawing, grabbing black paws, Sveta shrank her head into her shoulders and then straightened up again, with a regretful sigh, and lit up her shock spell for a second time. Finally catching up with her, Athis raised his blade and prepared to plunge head-first into the broiling black battle cloud and pull out his luckless friend - but then withdrew to the campfire, grinning smugly to himself.  
  
The bright flash of magic in Sveta's hands had suddenly made Athis recollect another, quite different flash, which he had seen back in the days when he himself was a whelp, a newcomer apprenticed to Skjor, and his mentor had taken him troll-hunting. The bright burst of a newly lit torch.  
  
Of course. Trolls were vulnerable to fire. Sveta's lightning might sting them, but a good old blast of flames would send them to meet their hairy, smelly ancestors. Now, his own ancestors (hopefully not as smelly, though he could not vouch for their hairiness) could grant him the power to fry the creatures to a crisp; but he would rather not ask them for favours willy-nilly - he needed them to hold on to their wrath for later, to resolve a... personal matter. And he knew just the thing that he could use instead.  
  
The troll that was more exposed to the lashes of the blinding bursts of shock was gradually beginning to sink to the ground, clutching it hairy sides and wheezing raspily; its mate, however, kept hammering at Torvar relentlessly - most of its blows were off-target, but some found their mark, making the Nord flap his lips, fish-like, and blink repeatedly, dazed by pain.   
  
Darnitall, where was that elf when he needed him to keep his back dangerous - or whatever it was? He had heard Athis' growling voice somewhere out there, in the background, beyond the crazed flurry of the trolls' paws. So, the fella had arrived on the scene. But where in Oblivion was the rescue? Or did Torvar have to shave off his beard, and bat his eyelashes, and stuff a couple of pillows underneath his armour's chestpiece, to get that elf's attention?..  
  
Torvar was just getting to the most emotional point of his mental lament, when the two trolls were suddenly engulfed in a raging, fiery rain that sliced against their black bodies and consumed them whole. Yelping in pain, pulling and clapping at their furry coats, which were now all aflame and reeked of singed hair, they left the big Nord alone and broke into a run - but their escape was ended before it even started properly, by a small whirlwind of grey and gold, slashing their backs and making them fall to the ground, their feral growls silenced forever.   
  
Athis - wielding his blade in one hand and a thick burning stick from the campfire in another.  
  
  
'You still feeling sorry for them, little Scrib?' he asked, panting, as he looked up from the charred mass of fur, putting out the flame of his makeshift weapon by digging its end into the damp soil.  
  
'I... I don't know,' she said, with an ever so slight echo of tears in her cracking voice. 'You get so... frightening when you wield fire...'  
  
Athis frowned and, tossing the stick to the ground and sheathing his blade, walked up to Sveta.  
  
'That fire only burns those who harm you,' he murmured, taking her by the hand. 'You needn't be afraid'.  
  
'Begging your pardon!' Torvar cut in indignantly, massaging a bruise on his stomach. 'I think I was the one being harmed here!'  
  
So he figured those two hadn't done their thing yet, after all. And they should have done it long ago, blast it, instead of having moments!  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
'Ouch, ouch, ouch! It stings!'  
  
'Hush, Torvar,' Sveta smiled, a faint, gentle flush spreading across her cheeks. 'It means the magic is working'.  
  
And by Kynareth, she was so relieved it was - after all, she had to cast her healing spell through Torvar's armour, in order not to upset Athis. But she certainly knew better than mention it out loud.  
  
After the pale, honey-tinted threads, twisting across Torvar's broad torso, finally dissolved, the three Companions gave one another long, intent looks, making sure that no-one had left behind their weapon, and checking for any untreated injuries.  
  
'Well, we all seem to have our heads attached to our shoulders,' Athis remarked at length. 'It's time we were on our way again. Who has the map?'  
  
'Erm...' Torvar coughed, scratching the back of his head. 'Either you or the slaughterfish, I think.'  
  
His eyes lighting up ominously in the shadow of a scowl, Athis thrust his hand into the pouch on his belt. When he fished out the contents, he stared at them for a second or two - and then, made a loud spitting sound,  
  
'N'chow!'  
  
As he had not been tossed around by the current too much, thanks to Sveta's magic, the map had miraculously remained on his person - but the water had made it completely unreadable, turning the ink markings into somewhat potato-shaped black-and-grey blobs. There was no way they could determine their location now. No way they could decide which way to turn. They were stuck in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but a chain of bleary ink spots to give them guidance - and to make it worse, it was Athis' fault. Sweet Azura, how he hated it when something was his fault!  
  
Torvar whistled,  
  
'Some dive you must have had, buddy!'  
  
'Stop mocking me!' the Dunmer hissed in reply, lifting his clenched fists up to his chest and drawing short, uneven breaths through his nose. 'I told you before: I don't need your reminders of what a fool I am! I know it without your sleazy hints!'  
  
'What sleazy hints?' Torvar asked, tossing his head from side to side in confusion. 'I don't get you: didn't you yell at Scrib here, before that troll thing, because she _didn't_ remind you what a fool you are? That was how it looked to me - and probably how it really was, too; I've been sober for so long I wanna cry!'  
  
Athis groaned in frustration, and tore his nails deep into the skin of his palms.  
  
'Athis, we talked about this,' Sveta said, reaching out for his straining, wiry forearms and drawing his fists down with a gentle touch. 'Please don't get so upset about what happened at the waterfall! It doesn't matter that we lost the map - we can just follow the river; there is bound to be some sort of village, or sawmill, or hunter's cottage downstream, sooner or later. We will ask directions there - or...' she gulped sheepishly, 'Or one of you will ask directions. I am not so good with talking to people I don't know...'  
  
'Listen to the little lady,' Torvar nodded wisely.   
  
Athis lowered his head and groped silently for Sveta's fingers.  
  
'You are right,' he sighed. 'We should just follow the river. Where there is water, there are humans. Torvar - '   
  
He glanced up; it evidently took him a great deal of effort to speak, and there was a lump sliding up and down his throat - like a small ball rolling underneath his skin. Sveta had to look away, screwing up her eyes and chewing on her lips; the sight of that strong, grey neck, and of that jerking lump, made her want to pass her fingers across Athis' skin... so smooth, save for a faint hint at a stubble just below the chin... No, forget the fingers - her lips! She wanted to trace that warm grey flesh with her lips, to kiss every inch of his throat, to taste the echo of his heartbeat in that lump...   
  
Gods, this felt so - odd. So wrong. She had never had these kinds of thoughts before, not even after reading certain books about the life in Morrowind. And she never thought she would. Ever since that... incident in her late teens, she had been mortified at the thought of being touched by a man - and of touching him herself. And yet - there she was. Longing for Athis, stronger with every passing day. Losing her mind with joy whenever she felt his skin against hers - and always, always, internally screaming for more.  
  
'Torvar... I am sorry'.  
  
The scraping, ashen sound of Athis' voice brought Sveta back to her senses - but only a little, for she found it very hard to hear him speak without plunging into a sort of elated daze.  
  
'Wow, that girl really has done something to you, hasn't she?' Torvar chuckled. 'You apologizing at every turn is definitely something new - but hey, it's awful nice. No harm done, buddy - you know me. I don't hold grudges. Let's move on, then'.  
  
Finally. Sveta hoped that on the move, the visions of her kissing Athis would plague her less.   
  
  
***  
  
  
The deafening sound of the logs being ripped apart by the whizzing, jagged metal wheel died down, replaced by the river's drowsy murmur. The water flashed like melted copper in the rays of the evening sun, and squinting at its metallic glare, picking a wood splinter mechanically out of the flesh of her palm, Gilfre wondered to herself, like she always did, how she had managed to live through yet another day, without her mill being ransacked by bandits or wild animals, or her back snapping in two with all that work.  
  
Had she really once had five able-bodied millhands hauling and sawing the lumber for her? Had there really been a time when the ramshackle, leaky-roofed little building opposite her own house had no dust on the furniture and no cobwebs in the corners, and its grimy, blind windows were clean, glinting in the sunlight during the day and glowing warmly after nightfall, the workers' shadows gliding to and fro behind them? Had she really not always been all alone in the wilderness, and had actually had five other living, breathing, tangible beings to yell at and to hear yelling right back at her?... Five other people. Five different men, each with his own features, his own character, his own voice - real people, not the faceless, uniformed guards that came to the mill once every few weeks and always stayed just long enough to collect the lumber for the Hold's needs - and to leave behind provisions for Gilfre, for she herself could not afford to shut down the mill and go to the nearest city market, not with the amount of work that was expected of her.  
  
Or had it all been a dream, that distant, half-blurred vision of life before the fighting began? Perhaps there had always been a war, somewhere far, far off, beckoning all those foolish men to abandon their work and run off on some obscure quest, armed with little else but their old woodcutter's axes, with cooking pots on their heads instead of helmets. Perhaps she had always been alone, with nothing but the whispering laps of the water and the creaking of the trees to keep her company...  
  
'Well now, Scrib, you were right after all! Here's a sawmill if there ever was one!'  
  
The sound of a male Nord's voice, loud, drawling, filled with a faint tingle of good-natured laughter, made Gilfre jerk out of her reverie. She shifted her gaze from the blazing river surface to the dark-green line of the bank - and let out a tiny chortle of happy disbelief. Good Father Zenithar, she had visitors - for the first time in forever.  
  
There were three of them - and they were definitely not the look-alike, indifferent guardsmen. One had to be a Dark Elf - dear gods, she did not remember the last time she had seen one! He had skin the colour of cold ashes left in the hearth in the morning, and two jutting ridges on his forehead, and fierce ruby eyes, and flowing ginger hair - and oh Mara, pointy ears!   
  
The other two, striding at each side of the elf, were humans - Nords. A little matchstick of a girl, with hair light as sawdust, and not unlike it in colour, too - drowning in the folds of an oversized miner's shirt, torn and grimy in so many places that Gilfre could not even begin to imagine what the child had been doing while wearing it.  
  
And finally, a tall, broad-shouldered man, with a thick, tangled beard and warm dark-blue eyes; apparently, he was the one she had heard speaking before. He seemed a bit boorish, and judging by the red creases of skin on his face, he knew his way around a mead barrel - but Gilfre did not mind that. 'Twas a rare Nord man indeed that did not raise a merry mug to chase away the piercing cold of the long winter nights. And if the merriness got too out of hand - why, 'twas a rare strong woman that could not put her boot in and say that enough was enough. She herself had done so more than once, making even the rowdiest of her workers mind themselves.  
  
When the three travellers realized that she was watching them, the girl flushed fiercely and gave her companions a round-eyed, meaningful look. The bearded Nord stepped forward and cleared his throat,  
  
'Erm, well met, good woman. We were wondering if you knew the way to, uh, Witchmist Grove?'  
  
She stretched her hand forward for a greeting. For some reason, the big fellow's voice had made her smile - she really must have spent much too much time alone.  
  
'Name's Gilfre,' she said - a little briskly. Talking to strangers was a skill she had nigh on lost grasp of. 'Don't know of any Witchmist Grove, but by the name of it, it would be out there, further into the wilds. Strange things going on in the tundra. Strange sounds at night. Could be witches, for all I know'.  
  
'And you are not afraid, sitting here all by yourself?' the Nord asked; his friendly, sincere interest made something warm and fuzzy, like a tiny newborn pup, curl up inside Gilfre's chest. She had always thought it foolish to hope that anyone in the outside world would actually care about how she was faring.  
  
'Oh, I manage,' she smirked, resting her hands on her hips. 'I can stand up for myself. Used to spend days trying to beat five lazy louts into shape. Good training'.  
  
The big fellow shifted uncomfortably from one foot to another, apparently at a loss about how to go on with this conversation. The elf promptly came to his aid, shifting towards Gilfre and saying huskily,  
  
'Thank you for your help, muthsera. We will get going, then. To seek out witches in the wilds'.  
  
Not - not so soon? She had barely gotten used to emptiness around her coming alive with the sounds of new voices! She had to think of something to make them stay longer - so that she could take a good look at their faces and preserve their images inside her mind, bottled up like warm, summer-scented snowberry cordial, and take them out and uncork them whenever she felt too lonely, letting the memories of her guests' skin and eye colour, clothing and gestures, gait and voices, colour her dreary, grey day-to-day routine with countless new shades...   
  
And she did not have to look far, really; all three of her unexpected guests looked road-weary and bedraggled; their clothing and armour was tattered and in need of a good wash, and she had a vague suspicion that they had not had a decent meal in days - those adventurer folks were like that, chasing after treasure, or whatever if was, instead of sitting down at a dinner table.  
  
'Hey,' she coughed, struggling to express her thoughts properly - the fact that she kept feeling the big Nord's gaze on her didn't make it any easier. 'Before you run off - care to share a meal with me? I always stock up on more food than I can eat alone, and you wouldn't want witches, or whatever other creatures, to swoop down upon you when you are weak with hunger, right?'  
  
The girl shuddered at the mention of swooping - and her bearded kinsman's eyes lit up.  
  
'That's a mighty fine offer,' he said, licking his lips. 'You got any ale or mead?'  
  
  
***  
  
  
The sun slowly sunk down behind the swaying black tree tops, and the pale-blue sky darkened to a rich, velvety ultramarine, against which the twin moons glowed gently, floating side by side, cloaked in finest diamond dust; beneath the tall starry dome, the workers' shack, nestled next to the sawmill, filled with sounds that had not been heard in this remote corner of the wilds for a long, long time. Voices, talking and laughing.  
  
Gilfre had set to work with an almost feverish zeal, scrubbing the floor and dusting the lopsided tables and chairs - for the first time in what felt like an eternity, for she had barely set foot in the workers' quarters ever since they left, too terrified of the dreary emptiness inside.   
  
Now, though, things were different - she had let her three guests use the little shack, to have a good meal and take a well-deserved rest, and there was much to be done! She would have to make the place look livable - and then, throw together something filling, something tasty, with plenty of meat and greens and bread... and, of course, fetch the mead from the cellar to make it all go down...   
  
She smiled to herself, the weary, worried lines on her faces smoothing over, as she imagined the big Nord chewing vigorously on his meal, accompanying each loud, hearty gulp with a spluttering swig of mead. And then, drawing back from the table, his big, square-fingered hands resting on his stomach, and thanking her for a delicious supper...  
  
She had grown so absorbed in her fussy, happy chores, that it took her a while to realize that she actually had a helper. The little Nord girl had picked up another of the two brooms and was busily sweeping the thick, grey, almost furry coils of cobwebs from under the beds. At first, Gilfre tried to shoo her off - it was the hostess' duty to do the cleaning, after all - but she kept offering to help, in a timid, faltering, childish way; so, finally, the older woman gave in, and together, the two of them swept and washed the workers' quarters squeaky clean.  
  
Gilfre wondered at her own endurance as she glanced at the impeccable, pristine walls and floor, at the neatly made beds, and at the sparkling windows. She had felt so exhausted after a day of sawing lumber, all by herself - she should have collapsed onto her bed and refused to move an inch till morning; but instead, she was dancing around the shack together with the girl, just as light on her feet as her younger helper, if not more so.   
  
Gods, it felt wonderful to work side by side with someone. To exchange friendly jests and casual remarks, like, 'Have you dusted the mantelpiece?'. To bump clumsily against each other when reaching towards the same dusty corner, and burst into a silly, girlish giggle. To ask for help and to offer it. To - to be... not alone.  
  
They were about to leave the shack and go to Gilfre's house, which was where she kept all her food stock, when the older woman froze on the spot and asked, frowning,  
  
'Where did the men go?'  
  
She vaguely remembered them hovering behind her back as she had just plunged herself into her cleaning - but for most of the time, it had been just her and the girl.  
  
The little Nord rubbed her finger against the side of her nose.  
  
'I... I think they went to chop firewood,' she said slowly. 'You know. To repay you for your hospitality. It was Torvar's idea...'  
  
Gilfre threw her hands up into the air.  
  
'It's dark out there!' she exclaimed. 'It's dangerous to walk around the mill at this time of night!'  
  
'I think they found a couple of old lanterns on one of those shelves,' the girl pointed at the nearest storage cupboard.  
  
This did not put Gilfre's mind at ease, however; she just had to check on the Nord and the elf. But even after she rushed out into the night, and called out to the men, and exchanged waves and casual greetings with them, and made sure than the golden shimmer of the lanterns, set down on two large tree stumps, and the pale glow of the moons was enough for them to find their way around and not to cut themselves - even after that, she did not grow less restless.  
  
The night air was rather chilly, but, warmed up by the steady, repetitive, forceful strikes of the axe, the big Nord had taken off his cuirass; the uneven, swaying glow of the lantern glided across his bared chest, caressing it and highlighting the shape of his bulging muscles. His elven companion wore lighter armour, held together with nothing but leather straps on his chest, and his upper body was already almost exposed - but he was too lean for Gilfre's liking. The only feeling she got from watching him chop firewood was an urge to give him a generous helping of stew. The Nord, on the other hand... Ah, the Nord's built was much heavier; he had thick, brawny arms and an incredibly broad chest, fluffy with wiry, curling hair, which was a bit darker than his beard and carelessly braided mane. As he made swing after swing, splitting small logs in two with precise, clean strikes, Gilfre felt her mouth water.   
  
While an Imperial herself, she had always been drawn to the Nords' calm, confident strength, which seemed to be rooted in the very hard, frost-bitten earth of this province. Her lumberjacks had been like that - tall, broad-shouldered, ruddy-cheeked, mighty as the old pine trees that they cut down. She had had a tryst with one of them - but broke it off, feeling that she would eventually come to play favourites, treating him differently from the other workers, and it wasn't in her character. But this one - this one was not one of her lumberjacks.  
  
She swallowed loudly, starting at the sharp tingle tickling the roof of her mouth.   
  
_Calm down, Gilfre, calm down,_ she told herself. _You have spent too much time alone in the woods. You have gone wild. Whatever are you thinking - ready to throw yourself at the first man that walks by and chops your firewood for you? He will think you are crazy! Now, turn around, walk away and get down to your cooking! And don't you dare think about his arms! And chest! And... and other things!_  
  
As she whirled on her heels, she almost knocked the girl off her feet - the child was staring dazedly at the two men, just as she herself had been but a moment ago. Only her gaze was directed at the Dunmer.  
  
She snapped out of it, though, when Gilfre asked if she wanted to help with the supper, and trotted after the older woman into her house. The two did not talk much while cooking - for her part, Gilfre was busy chasing away persistent visions of bared, hairy, battle-scarred Nordic flesh; and judging by the way the girl's ears burned, turning almost the exact shade as the beetroots she was peeling, she could very well be seeing the same pictures inside her mind (only in a smaller, greyer version).  
  
But at long last, the supper was ready. And quite an ample one, too, for Gilfre did have far more provisions in her larder than it was necessary to feed a lonely woman for a few weeks - perhaps because, all this time, she had been yearning for company. And now that the company had arrived, at long last, she had done her best to put all that excess stock to good use. There was creamy goat-cheese fondue, and generous helpings of bread-and-butter, and steaming apple cabbage stew, and even a hunk of roast venison.   
  
Before the start of the meal, Gilfre had had her guests change out of their clothes and, one by one, go and wipe their bodies with a towel soaked in the water from the rain barrel (Oh dear Dibella, how she longed to spy on the Nord! But she resisted to the last). While they were at it, she had laid out some of the clothes her workers had left behind, for the two men; and one of her own (very few) dresses, for the girl - and now, as they were seated around the table, she could not help but fawn over how dainty they all looked, the Nord and the elf in their vests and the girl in her brown bodice. It was sheer joy to watch those three - even though she tried not to fix her gaze on the Nord for too long, lest the odd tingle return again. She revelled in their every movement - how they reached out for the salt, and worked with their knives at some pesky sinew in the meat, and pushed their plates forward for another helping.   
  
And they talked to her, too; throughout the entire meal! Joking and laughing, telling her a little of the quest they were on, if how they had tackled a bandit clan and three ferocious trolls. Of all the three guests, the girl was the quietest, picking tentatively at her food and only livening up when the Dark Elf addressed her. And her big kinsman, in turn, was the most boisterous - at times, it even seemed that he was trying to conceal embarrassment, for his face flared up every time his eyes met Gilfre's. Or maybe the drink was going to his head too fast. But, whatever the cause, his nasally voice rang loudest over the clatter of tableware, and, soothed by its sound, Gilfre suddenly found herself wishing that he would go on talking like this forever. That this merry supper would never end. That she would never have to listen to silence again...  
  
But, of course, that was impossible. In the small hours of the morning, the table turned into a ravaged battlefield of dirty plates and overturned glasses and, their bellies full and their eyelids drooping heavily, the three strangers crept off to bed. Gilfre left the workers' quarters for her own house - but found herself completely unable to sleep. The excitement of entertaining guests still rang within her, like a tight lute string that had been nipped by the bard, making her toss and turn in her bed, with a broad, happy grin on her face.  
  
Finally, she could contain herself no longer and, shivering a little in the early morning chill, crept to the workers' shack and peeked inside through the unlocked door.   
  
The elf and the girl were fast asleep. They had shifted their beds together - not completely, though; there still was a sizeable gap left between them, and bridging over that gap, their hands hung, fingers interlocked tightly. Whenever the girl relaxed her grasp, the elf frowned and muttered something restlessly in his sleep; but as soon as she got a firmer hold of him, he smiled and drifted off into blissful oblivion.  
  
The big Nord, however, turned out to be a lighter sleeper. As Gilfre stepped closer towards the elf and the girl, craning her neck curiously to make out their expressions, a loose floor board creaked abruptly below her foot; moments later, the great dark bulk on the bed at the opposite side of the room stirred, and a muffled voice asked thickly,  
  
'Wassup?'  
  
Smiling to herself, she swept on tiptoe towards the big Nord's bed and lowered herself onto its edge. The man pushed himself upright and squinted at her, his eyes slightly bloated from sleep - and gorging himself on mead at supper.  
  
'Can't sleep,' Gilfre said with a shrug. 'Say - what's the matter with those two?' she added in a confidential whisper, nodding at the sleeping couple. 'They together or what?'  
The Nord chortled quietly into his beard.  
  
'They should be,' he explained in a very meaningful undertone. 'He is crazy about her, she is crazy about him - but neither will make the first move. They are like little kids'.  
  
Gilfre smirked - and said, before she could stop herself, her heart contracting painfully at the suddenness of her own words,  
  
'Well, neither you nor me are little kids - right?'  
  
 _Gilfre, what are you doing?! Stop leaning over him like that! Get your hands off his chest! Can't you see how shocked he looks?! What's wrong with you, woman?!  
  
He is so strong and adorably blundering, and has such warm eyes... And in a few hours, he will be gone from my life forever. He and his friends will leave on their adventure - and I will be alone once again. I have to do this. When else am I going to get a chance like this?_  
  
Panting heavily, deafened by the drumming of her own blood, Gilfre pressed herself against the Nord's hairy chest and, grabbing his hands, placed them forcefully onto her waist. Then, her heart beating so violently that she feared it would rip through the front of her dress, she slid her arms underneath his and began to caress his broad, muscled back. She could see his eyes widen, uncomprehending, almost terrified - he clearly did not want this. She had to stop before it was too late. Before he grew disgusted. Before her precious memories were marred forever... But she could not stop. Breathless, drunk with the smell of his sweat, with the sweet tinge of mead in his breath, she pressed her mouth against his - and froze. Oh dear mother Mara. There were - there were tears streaming down his face, trickling in thick, hot drops right into his beard. He was crying.  
  
'What's wrong?' she whispered anxiously, tearing herself away from him.  
  
'G-Gilfre,' he sniffled, wiping his nose with his hand like an oversized toddler. 'I... I like you... a lot... b-but... I can't do this... You wouldn't want me if you knew what a stupid, stupid drunk I am. Please. Let's part as good friends - and remember each other as good friends...'  
  
And before she could put in a word, before she could gather her thoughts and push her heart from her throat back to her chest again, he shifted a little, threw his legs across the edge of the bed, and called out hoarsely,  
  
'Guys! Hey guys! Wake up! Let's get going!'  
  
  
***  
  
  
'Torvar - why was that Imperial woman crying when she was seeing us off?' Athis asked as the three of them, once again clad in their armour (though Gilfre had allowed Sveta to keep her dress, as the miner's shirt had definitely lived its last), marched uphill in the faint pink light of the morning sun, while the forest around them gradually fell back, replaced by the barren volcanic tundra.  
  
'How should I know?' the Nord snapped, kicking a small stone out of his way.  
  
'She came to talk to you while we were asleep, didn't she?' the elf persisted. 'Did you say something that made her upset? Did you...' his eyes narrowed and he glanced back at Sveta, trying very hard to phrase his question in a way that wouldn't hurt her tender feelings.   
  
Torvar's eyes rounded,  
  
'No! No, no, no!' he blurted out, blushing a rich magenta. 'Nothing like that! It was actually - ' he cut himself short. 'I don't wanna talk about it, okay? You never talk to me about your feelings for Scrib!'  
  
Athis stumbled over his own feet and almost fell.  
  
'You don't mean to say - ?'  
  
'I think Torvar really likes good Gilfre,' Sveta piped in timidly. 'But he is embarrassed because he got... in his cups and promised another girl to marry her. Maybe,' she coughed unobtrusively into her fist, 'Maybe he is also... a bit scared that something like this will happen between him and Gilfre too'.  
  
'Blimey!' Torvar choked, clapping his hand against his forehead. 'How'd you know all that?'  
  
She cast down her eyes modestly.  
  
'I... I think I am slowly learning of telling what men feel from the way they behave. Otherwise,' she looked up again with a dreamy smile, 'Otherwise every time Athis yelled at me, I would think he was awfully mean... But I know that this is wrong, and he can be very gentle and caring - he is just not used to it. I can see it now... Just as I can see what Torvar feels for Gilfre'.  
  
This time, the Dunmer merely stubbed his toe against a canis root plant.  
  
'I - I think,' he said hurriedly, struggling not to give away the mad flutter of butterflies that had stirred within him at Sveta's last words, 'I think that the moment you deal with that failed wife of yours, you should head back to Gilfre. She seems a decent sort. Hard-working, responsible; just the kind of good influence that a dunderhead like you - '  
  
He never got to say 'needs', cut short by a glistening, sickly green liquid projectile that whizzed towards him out of a crack in a nearby rock, plastering over his face and shoulders.  
  
'What in the name of Oblivion?' he spluttered, staggering and trying to tear the gooey mass off his skin.   
  
The sticky substance clogged his nose, suffocating him, and made his eyes sting; when some got into his mouth and he involuntarily swallowed it, he felt a sudden chill rush up and down his spine. He spun around, completely disoriented, oblivious to the enormous shadow that swelled up behind his back, eight legs twitching in the air, groping for prey...  
  
Torvar had heard tell that Farkas, one of the strongest Companions and a proud member of the Circle, was mortally terrified of spiders - and while sometimes, a mug of mead in hand, he joined his Shield Brothers and Sisters in mocking the poor fellow's fear, he secretly sympathized with him. And now he got a pretty good reminder why. For a few seconds, he felt numb and woozy, as if he was drowning in icy water. He just stood and stared at the giant brown body, all covered in bristles, each as long as his finger - and at the many hungry black eyes, so bottomless that it hurt to look into the for long; at the long, gnarled, rustling legs, each ending in a meat-hook-like claw; and at the snapping pincers, so large and thick that they could easily cut a man's arm off... And when he finally managed to shake off the horror-struck stupor, he realized that he had lost precious time and the monster had wrapped its legs round the blinded, swaying Athis, slicing the flesh of his arms and spitting its foul venom into the wounds.  
  
'Claws off him!' he roared, charging at the spider and telling himself, over and over, as though chanting a prayer, not to think of the pincers. Not to think of the pincers...  
  
The axe chopped at the squishy insect body with a loud crunching noise, which, together with the juicy splurching of whichever liquid the creature had inside its body instead of blood, made Sveta focus her attention on the battle. Before that, she had been standing a little way behind Torvar, her glassy eyes fixed on the face of her Athis, draining of colour so fast that her heart thrashed in agony when she looked at him. This - this was too much like a nightmare... Those chiseled features, losing all expression; those deep crimson eyes, growing dim; that beautiful body sagging down to the ground, so limp, so lifeless, while spider began wrapping it into a thick white web... No - he couldn't die like this! Not him! Not her Athis! Her valiant ash-skinned warrior, her harsh mentor and gentle guardian, her steadfast rock, her shield - her love...  
  
She tried to bare her sword, so she could make a stand at Torvar's side and rescue her precious Dunmer - but her fingers were trembling, and her arm suddenly felt so weak that she would hardly be able to hold her weapon. Then, choking on scorching tears of anger at her own uselessness, she mustered all of her failing willpower, attempting to summon her newly discovered ability to cast Destruction magic.  
  
After a few failed sizzles, the lightning finally burst forth, uncoiling like a serpent ready to sink its fangs into the hapless victim - and just in time, too: Torvar had barely managed to fell one spider when another came crawling out into the daylight, front legs raised menacingly into the air, ready to blind the Nord with its poison spit.  
  
But before its blast of venom could reach its target, the spider was struck, right into its monstrous, swollen belly, by a jagged bolt of shock - which kept burning through the gleaming bristles and the hardened, spiky chitin, till finally, the creature curled up on its back, motionless, legs folded into a tight, twisted knot.  
  
Extinguishing her spell, Sveta rushed over to Athis and tore with all her might at his sticky bonds - she feared to use her sword, for she was still shaking - what if she wounded him by accident? She struggled with the stubborn cobwebs till her face grew red; but, drained by fear and spell-casting as she was, she managed to do little other than getting her hands dirty. When she saw that all her efforts to break him loose had no effect, she broke into uncontrollable, almost hysterical sobs, screaming internally, 'This - this is not fair!', like a child that had been wronged.  
  
It had taken her and Faendal less than a minute to extricate that double-crossing grave-robber - from a much thicker cocoon, too! Why - why couldn't she free her Athis?! The - the one person that mattered most to her...  
  
'Hey there. Let me take a try...' she almost screamed at the suddenness of the pat of the shoulder that Torvar gave her. 'This needs a stronger hand - no offence'.  
  
Reluctantly, she drew aside, allowing Torvar to thrust the blade of his axe beneath the spider's web and jerk it upwards, slicing the gooey bindings in two.  
  
As his half-finished cocoon fell apart, Athis let out a barely audible, whimper-like groan. For a split second, Sveta felt the world whirl away from her.   
  
'He - he is alive,' she wheezed, almost pushing Torvar aside, sweeping the Dunmer - as much of him as she could hold - into her arms and swaying from side to side, kneeling down, like a mother lulling a baby to sleep.  
  
'Yeah,' Torvar said grimly. 'Not for long though. I heard tales about these beasties and their poison - if you don't heal him now, he will drift off to sleep and never wake up again'.  
  
Sveta felt as though someone had forced a long, thin, spear-like shard of ice down her mouth, through her heart, and into her stomach. She - she had not yet restored her magicka after casting that lightning. Did that mean Athis was going to die in her arms - and she would do nothing to prevent this? No. No. She could not let that happen. She could not let him die. She... She had to find a way to keep him awake somehow, until her magicka replenished... She could - Oh dear gods.  
  
Her eyes welling up with tears, her insides twisting into a bleeding knot, she leaned down, closer and closer to the beautiful, finely carved mask that Athis' face had turned into. His stiff, cold, ashen lips were parted - and, smiling instinctively as his stubble tickled her skin, she slid her tongue into his mouth.  
  
At first, it felt odd - almost repulsive, having her tongue wander about in that cold, wet emptiness; but then, Athis stirred, wakened by the alien presence inside his mouth, and lashed his own tongue against hers. Gripping him tighter with her right arm and resting her left on his chest, ready to cast the healing spell the moment her magical energy returned, Sveta closed her eyes and tried her best to put as much force into her kiss as she could, hoping, praying to Dibella that she was doing everything right.   
  
She had barely noticed how her magicka came flooding back again, and kept kissing Athis, even as her fingers lit up with the honeyed glow of Restoration magic. Gradually, she felt the Dunmer's skin grow warm again; his hands began caressing her body, in a way that he had never dared to do before - and the ecstatic rush that his touch sent through her every fibre was so strong that she had to break the kiss to be able to breathe.   
  
After tearing away from his mouth, she gazed silently into his eyes, which were, once again, alive with a familiar ruby-like glint - and then, just as her sinful vision had prompted her, moved over to his neck. He drew a slow, rattling breath of pleasure, which scorched her face and sent a feverish flush in its wake - and she clawed at his heaving back, her cheeks wet with tears of happiness, which rolled down along the old traces left by the tears of fear and despair, washing them away...  
  
'Whoah, whoah - there might be more spiders out there, you know!' Torvar exclaimed, shaking his friend slightly by the shoulder.  
  
Blinking like an addict coming to his senses after a long night of abusing Skooma, Athis let go of Sveta and staggered to his feet. She followed suit, her face redder than the Dunmer's eyes, his taste still burning inside her mouth.  
  
'Well now,' Torvar thought to himself as he eyed the other two, watching them grin stupidly, and avoid looking each other in the eyes, and look anyway, and grin once again. 'I am definitely making up with Gilfre! If this awkward grey-skin finally did it - so can I!'


	7. Chapter 7

'I am sorry,' Sveta mumbled, clenching her fists and pressing her chalk-white knuckles against her trembling lips. 'I am so, so sorry... I didn't mean to, I swear!'  
  
Athis' face fell.  
  
'You - what?' he asked curtly, his eyes flaring up in the shadow of knitted eyebrows - like embers in a darkened hearth that someone has stoked. 'You didn't mean to kiss me?'  
  
The rapid change in his expression made Sveta take a step back in alarm.  
  
'I - all I wanted to do was keep you awake,' she wheezed, looking up at him pleadingly with her silvery eyes, and chewing, child-like, at the nails of her thumbs. 'I got carried away... Please... Please don't think ill of me!'  
  
The fiery glow in Athis' eyes reached its brightest.  
  
'Damn it, girl!' he exclaimed, throwing his arms up into the air in frustration. 'Whatever have you got stuffed inside that little head of yours?! B'vek! You should listen to yourself! Apologizing for making me happy!'  
  
Sveta stared at him unblinkingly, appearing to shrink into a small, tense lump, like a tiny bird that has been captured by a human and is looking up at him, lying on its back between his enormous, thick fingers - not knowing if the strange two-legged creature will pet it or crush its frail little bones. His heart jolting at the sight of her terrified face, the Dunmer drew close to her and cupped her chin gently in his hand, the blaze in his eyes fading to a steady, warm glow.  
  
'The only reason why I may think ill of you,' he breathed, brushing loose strands of hair out of Sveta's eyes with his free hand, 'Is you not doing it sooner'.  
  
And, turning her face up, he gave her a kiss of his own. It was not as long or as passionate as hers had been; he did not dare be the first to enter her mouth - not yet. He merely pressed his lips against hers, sliding his eyes half-way shut as he got a feel of that soft, warm, slightly wet flesh. The touch of his mouth was like a seal - a sign of reassurance. A way of letting her know that what she had done had been the one right thing to do. That it had dispelled all his doubts and fears. That when he was lying in her arms and spider venom was slowly leaving his body, he had awoken in every sense of the world. He had awoken to a new life, in a new world, shared by him and his precious little Scrib... who had just revealed the passion with which she returned his feelings.  
  
'Oh, come on!' Torvar wailed, pretending to tear at his beard. 'Not again!'  
  
Athis was still holding Sveta close to him when his ears twitched slightly, catching the faint rustle of tiny, bristling feet against the stone. He did not hurry to tear away from her, however - oh no, he had had about enough of foolish interruptions. After breaking the kiss - gently, gradually, drawing a small sigh as his lips left Sveta's - he lingered for a few seconds, gazing into her eyes and tracing the outline of her face with his fingers, smiling a faint smile that, to Sveta, felt like a ray of pale sunlight warming her skin. Then, and only then, did he turn towards Torvar, draw his sword, and say calmly,  
  
'You were right, my friend. There are more spiders out there'.  
  
And 'more' was really a bit of an understatement. The spiders poured out of the narrow, crack-like cavern entrance in a dense, bristling brown stream. They were smaller in size than the ones the adventuring team had just battled, each of them no larger than a young wolf pup - but their numbers were nigh on overwhelming. The torrent of chitin bodies swirled and bubbled round the three Companions' feet, and whenever one spiderling rolled to its back, its squishy belly sliced open by Athis' blade or Torvar's axe, another one immediately took its place.   
  
This was getting tiresome and frustrating, and soon the warriors' swings grew slower, less powerful, and a couple of brave spiderlings even managed to weave their thin, gnarled legs round their adversaries' calves, aiming to spew their poison under their skin. Athis and Torvar shook them off, of course, cursing and stomping their feet to crush down the bothersome, wriggling creatures - but this still went to show that they were beginning to lose their guard.  
  
Sveta was handling the spider-fighting with even more difficulty. At first, her heart still ringing happily with the echo of Athis' words before he kissed her, she had charged at the swelling brown tide with all the battle fury that she could muster. Rising and falling steadily, her sword had made oozing, sickeningly green gashes in the spiders' chitin, and, flushed and out of breath, she had even smiled to herself, wondering if Athis could see her handling the critters' onslaught.   
  
But after a short while, her zeal waned, and she suddenly found herself focusing on the way the spiderlings moved their legs, probing the air; the way the gooey venom dripped off their pincers; the way their black, beady eyes gleamed, glassy, unblinking... And as she stared at the sea of eight-legged creatures that swirled around her, her body went limp and numb, just as when she had been confronted with the spiderlings' larger siblings; she gripped her throat, overcome by a spasm of squeamish nausea, and staggered backwards, letting go of her sword.   
  
This gave the creatures a chance to overpower her; sweeping over her in a squirming chitin wave, they knocked her off her feet - and before she knew it, she was buried underneath a thick, living carpet of bristling bodies and twitching legs, which clawed at her, groped her, prodded her, scratching her face, getting into her mouth and ears. Stifled by retching spasms, her stomach tying itself into a painful knot, she lay completely helpless - even as the spiderlings began wrapping her into their web; she was so still that they did not even have to paralyze her with their venom.   
  
Deep inside her head, a tiny, squeaky voice desperately begged her limbs to come alive, to tear through the sticky bonds, to pick up the abandoned sword and to crush the awful bugs into the ground... But her numb, useless arms refused to obey, while the spiderlings finished their cocoon; her vision darkened as, with a soft splurch, a white veil spread across her face; overcome by fear and repulsion, she found herself slipping away into stuffy, airless darkness... The last thing she remembered before oblivion closed in on her was the feeling of being carried somewhere - swept off by the brown chitin current. And a far-off, hoarse voice calling out her name.  
  
  
***  
  
  
The long strings of spider web ran across the ceiling like fuzzy, sticky garlands, with grey, shrivelled corpses tangled into them here and there. They twitched and throbbed and slithered, whispering to the queen of what was going on outside the cave. She knew that fresh meat had arrived - but her guardians were taking far too long to prepare her meal. And the younglings she had sent as reinforcements were not in too much of a hurry to return, either.   
  
Hissing and spitting impatiently, she gathered herself up, slashing at the air with the claws on her legs.   
  
What was taking them so long? Had the prey proved too strong for them, like that great mass of fur, with a long trunk and curved tusks, that had squashed so many of her older offspring before they finally managed to stun it and tether it with their webs? Or were they too busy dividing the meat among themselves, sucking out the precious red sweetness, gurgling, spluttering, swaying drunkenly, planning to leave her with nothing but a dry, withered husk?   
  
She needed to check on the little critters herself. See what they were up to, and make them hurry up. This was her meal, after all. They had already paid their toll to the Masters of the Cavern by bringing them a bunch of nice, squishy warm-blooded creatures that they had caught in the wilds. These warm little morsels would last the Masters for a long, long while, and with them feasting in their chamber behind the sliding wall, the spiders could finally attend to their own affairs. Like feeding the queen!  
  
She pattered up to the jagged mouth of the corridor that linked her lair to the rest of the cavern - but the gap was too narrow for her to push her belly through. She hovered in front of it, her pincers filming over with angry froth - but just at that time, the web threads rippled, making the desiccated carcasses of her previous meals bob up and down in a strange, morbid dance. At long last, the spiderlings were on their way.  
  
She slid back, clicking her pincers hungrily, and watched the brown stream trickle in, carrying a long white bundle. The spiderlings stopped at a respectful distance and scattered, leaving the meal on the floor. The queen loomed over the cocoon, giving it swift, abrupt pokes with her front legs. It felt soft and warm - still ripe with the delicious life juices; the little ones had kept it whole, so it would be all hers. Hersss...  
  
Gripping the succulent little bundle with her claws, the queen lifted it to her mouth - but just as she was preparing to tuck into her long-expected dinner, the stillness of the cavern was shattered by a loud, shrill cry. The spiderlings darted madly across the queen's lair, chased by two of those warm-blooded, almost completely furless creatures that walk upright on two legs and have the tastiest stuffing - so well-appreciated by the Masters of the Cavern. The smaller of the creatures, armed with a long, sharp, gleaming sting, whirled among the queen's brood like a frenzied whirlwind, tearing the spiderlings into shreds; while the other one, with a furry face and thick upper limbs, felled his attackers with slow but heavy strikes.  
  
Dropping her meal to the ground, the queen reeled in fury, her bulbous, bristly head almost touching the lair's ceiling. No intruder had dared to delve so deep into the cavern for many, many spider generations. This had to mean that these two had cleaved their way through the spiderlings' ranks, mercilessly squishing and slicing and ripping apart her young as they progressed further and further down along the dark, twisting corridors.   
  
And the Cavern Masters - they had done nothing to stop them! Would it have been so hard for them to protect the queen and her spiderlings, as they had always protected the Masters, ever since the two predator clans began sharing these dark chambers and passageways?   
  
But of course. She almost choked on her own venom. The Cavern Masters were asleep, behind that protective wall of theirs. Fast asleep. They spent most of their time lying around with their eyes closed and their hands folded on their chests - when they were not feeding on the treats that the spiders brought them, as payment for using their cavern. Useless. Completely uselesss.  
  
  
With a colossal force, fuelled by seething rage, the queen brought herself down upon the two intruders, releasing a powerful gush of poison. Both of them managed to leap aside, however, and the slurping green fountain washed over the lifeless chitin carcasses of her own spiderlings. The small creature, the one with the sting, attempted to circle round the queen, looking for a vulnerable spot. But she noticed his movement and whirled her bulk around, grabbing at him with her front legs.  
  
She lifted him to eye level, watching him struggle in her vice-like grip, twitching and wriggling like a worm. The jagged spikes that ran along the sides of her claws made deep imprints in his skin, drawing small rivulets of blood. He was so full of hot life juice, this one; almost to bursting point. What would happen if the ripped him apart?..  
  
Panting loudly, the little hot-blooded creature managed to free the limb with the sting, and struck at one of the legs holding him. The sting did not do much damage, the protective chitin being too thick - but it still made the queen relax her hold of him.   
  
Seizing the moment, he gathered up all his strength - and aimed a kick at the queen's head, his soles pressing hard against two of her eyeballs, till they burst open, like ripe black berries. Staggering, disoriented, the queen let go of the creature and danced blindly around her lair, thrashing her body against the walls - while down below, the other intruder hacked at her legs, till finally, he managed to break through the chitin, and, its many knees giving way, the tremendous chitin bulk came toppling down to the ground, finally exposing its soft, vulnerable belly for a finishing strike.  
  
  
***  
  
  
'Wow, that was some crazy-ass spider!' Torvar wheezed, wiping the dark-green slime off his face and the front of his armour and patting the queen's squashed belly. 'I swear, when we first ran in and saw it, I thought I'd wet myself! Pity we can't drag it with us to Jorvaskr - what a trophy that would make, eh?..'  
  
But Athis was not listening. Pale like cold ash, still bleeding, his boots soaked through with the liquid that had spurted from the spider's eyes, his left arm swollen and hanging awkwardly at his side, he was kneeling next to the white cocoon, awkwardly ripping the web with his blade. Having freed Sveta of her bonds down to the waist, he froze for a few seconds, staring blankly at the gentle curve of her closed eyelids and at the shadow that her eyelashes cast on her ghastly white cheeks, the vertical line between his eyebrows growing so deep that he could have inserted his fingernail between the two folds of skin.   
  
Then, coming to his senses, he leaned down and pressed his blade against Sveta's lips. When the metal dimmed with the ghost of her breath, Athis drew a shuddering, sob-like sigh of relief. Nestling Sveta's head on his knees, he laid down his weapon and ran his hand shakily along her body, telling himself that he was checking for spider bites. Yes. Merely checking for spider bites.   
  
Sveta's nose twitched, mouse-like, breathing in the air inside the cavern - which, though dank and musty, was still better than being stuffed inside a cocoon. Her eyes fluttered open and, smiling softly at the touch of Athis' hot, slightly clammy fingers, she murmured,  
  
'Oh, look - we have switched places...'   
  
Athis gave a violent start and jerked his hand off Sveta's chest.  
  
'I can't heal you like you healed me,' he said hoarsely.  
  
'I'm all right'.  
  
With a small grunt, she wriggled on the spot a little, bending her knees and then straightening her legs again, to tear the web that was still wrapped around her lower body. After the glue-like threads ripped in two, she pushed herself up into a kneeling pose and turned to face Athis.  
  
'I don't think the spiders poisoned me. I - ' she swallowed a lump in her throat, a flush spreading across her cheeks - faint like a droplet of wine added to a glass of water. 'I just got too scared, like a stupid milk-drinker...'  
  
Then, her eyes fell on Athis' left arm - and, with a tiny terrified gasp, she set to healing it, whimpering shakily,  
  
'Oh goodness - you are hurt! It's all my fault! I let those spiders carry me away, and you had to rush to the rescue... and...'  
  
If this scene was to be repeated, it had to be repeated properly. Wrapping his good arm round Sveta's shoulders, Athis caught her lower lip between his - to silence her blubbering. After taking a few gentle, playful nibbles at her mouth - which, to his utmost joy, she returned - he took to brushing the web's sticky remnants off her thighs. First with one hand; then, after the healing magic soothed the throbbing in his injured arm - with both. Again - merely brushing the web off her thighs...   
  
By the Three, it felt so... so utterly perfect to touch her! To trace her body through the thin cloth, to commit its outline to memory - and to wonder, with fluttering, breathless excitement, if she would return his touch; if her hands would caress him once again, as they had done during their kiss.   
  
And sweet Azura - she did it! Her thin, cold fingers began circling across his grey, heaving flesh, softly brushing it with yet another strip of cloth that she had torn off her hapless shirt, which she had tied round the waist of Gilfre's dress as a sort of makeshift apron. Wiping off the slime splatters left on Athis' body after the battle. Yes, oh yes - merely wiping off the slime splatters...  
  
When the sticky, gory mess was cleaned up, however, Athis and Sveta no longer had an excuse to keep touching one another and had to get to their feet. For a few moments, they stood in awkward silence, avoiding each other's gaze, their lips twitching and their ears flaring as their minds processed the feeling that had come over them when their hands did their little exploration. A sweet, scorching feeling, like the bubbling juice of berries being stewed in sugar on slow fire...  
  
Finally, Torvar, who had been pulling at the dead queen's legs, engaging her in a mock boxing match, looked up and said,  
  
'So, when it's my turn to be bound up by those critters, will you two be kissing and tickling me?'  
  
The uncomfortable silence was gone, dispelled like misty haze being thinned by sunlight. The three of them burst out laughing. The sound of their voices, Torvar's hearty guffaws, and Athis' raspy, somewhat hesitant caw (he was not quite sure if he was doing it right), and Sveta's bird-like little chirp, all melted together in a loud and carefree chorus.  
  
As they walked back towards the cavern's entrance, through passage after winding passage, their laughter danced off the dank, oppressive stone walls, filling the underground corridors with just a tiny bit more light and air - and as Sveta drank in its sound, her hand resting cozily within Athis' warm, protective grip, she even forgot, for a moment, that they were stepping over the bodies of dead spiderlings.  
  
On their way to rescue Sveta, Athis and Torvar had had to deal with the bulk of the queen's brood; felled by the Nord's axe and the Dunmer's blade, the creatures now littered the adventurers' path like some sort of monstrous, oversized, eight-legged dry leaves. And when the laughter faded away, the squished spiderlings finally caught Sveta's attention; with an incoherent yelp, she made a tremendous, roe-like leap, away from the curled up critter blocking her path.  
  
When she came to her senses a little, she gave Athis a furtive, sheepish look.  
  
'Here I go again...' she muttered guiltily, massaging her throat. 'These things are just too... spiderey...'  
  
'Oh, come on!' Athis cried out.  
  
To Sveta's surprise, there was not a shade of usual irritation in his voice - instead, his tone was friendly, tinted with a sprinkle of harmless, friendly mockery... Perhaps this odd sweetness of his came from kissing and touching her so often?  
  
'They can't hurt you now! See?'  
  
With an encouraging wink at Sveta, the Dunmer gave the dead spiderling a good, well-aimed kick. The critter soared through the air, landing beside a pile of spider bodies across the large, cavernous chamber that the three Companions had entered. Athis watched its progress with a smug smirk, his arms folded on his chest - then, something flashed in his crimson eyes, and he raced forward towards the spider mound, gesturing to Torvar and Sveta to stay back.   
  
The two Nords hovered on the chamber's threshold, watching the Dunmer in astonishment, as he swept two dead spiderlings into his arms and dragged them aside a little, laying them next to the one he had kicked, to shape a single straight line, and then, scooped up more critter bodies and set them down them in certain places across the chamber, drawing some kind of bizarre pattern...   
  
It took Sveta a while to figure out what he was doing - and when she did, she swayed a little, so that Torvar had to catch her and keep her from falling. As the big Nord supported her, he could swear he felt the fierce drumming of her heartbeat through the skin of her arms.   
  
In a moment of delirious, insane inspiration, seeing how his eight-legged projectile had hit the floor, Athis had decided to use the spiderling bodies to form letters. To write a message that was long, long overdue.   
  
Somewhere at the back of his head, the voice of reason spat out indignant curses at him. Really? What was he thinking? Had the spider venom gotten into his blood and addled his brain? This was stupid, ludicrous - unromantic! Even the blundering, drunken Torvar had proposed to his unknown wife properly - under the moonlight, surrounded by fireflies or some such mushy stuff... B'vek, the girl was afraid of spiders, for crying out loud! What if she thought this was some kind of sick joke?  
  
But even the most frantic of those unheard cries were unable to stop Athis. Damn the voice of reason to Oblivion! The voice of reason was a meddlesome n'wah!   
  
No, he was not going to leave the spiders alone. He was not going to hold himself back. Not now. Not after she had kissed him, and he had kissed her back. Not after they had revelled in each other's touch. Not after he had told himself he would start afresh, without hesitating or concealing what was going on inside his mess of a heart. This might be a stupid idea, planted into his mind by Sheogorath - but he intended to let its seed grow. Because otherwise - otherwise he would never tell her.  
  
After the last dead spiderling found its proper resting place, Athis took a broad step aside, letting the two Nords see the fruit of his labours. Eight large, slightly lopsided letters, made out of spider bodies.  
  
 **I LOVE YOU.**  
  
After staring at the writing through the warm, pearly, tearful haze in her eyes, Sveta stepped away from her kinsman and, locking her fingers on her chest to keep her heart within her body, let out a short, gasp-like, squeaky chortle.  
  
Just as when she had charged to battle the spiderlings, sprouting invisible wings after Athis had kissed her; just as when she and the two men had burst out laughing - she barely noticed the repulsive limbs and bodies of the dead critters. They did not matter - just as the rest of the world. The only thing in the entire universe that had meaning - the only thing that existed - were those three fateful words. Beautiful, perfect words. Words that rang inside her heart, sending waves of breathtaking warmth through her entire body. Oh dear gods - perhaps the spiders really had poisoned her, and this was a vision of her dying mind, like her meeting with Nels?..  
  
Torvar whistled.  
  
'And the world's Weirdest Confession Award goes to... Athis!'  
  
'Don't you dare deride me like that!' the Dunmer panted, wiping his forehead.  
  
Then, he stumbled back across the chamber and, looking straight into Sveta's eyes, said, in a lowered, husky voice,  
  
'Please do not take offence at my... choice of writing material. I... I needed to get those words out already; they have been burning inside me for gods know how long. I managed to live with it at first, because most of the time they were deep, deep down; but these last few days...' he breathed in heavily, 'They brought the words closer to the surface'.  
  
She reached forward and took his hand into hers. His skin throbbed with the echo of his drumming heart, and his palm was slippery with sweat. He - he felt real... He was real. And the spider writing on the floor was real. She was not dead; she was not dreaming. This was actually happening.  
  
'C-can you...' she stammered, blushing, 'C-c-can you say it out loud?'  
  
He grabbed her by the shoulders and drew her to his chest.  
  
'I love you,' he purred into her ear, his breath tickling her flaming flesh. 'I love you, Sveta. My tender, kind little Sveta. My silver-eyed beauty. My Nordic blossom... I have loved you all this time, feeling so confused and angry... Mistaking my love for - for all sorts of foolish things, like the s'wit that I am...'  
  
She nuzzled against the straps of his armour, choking on happy tears.  
  
'All this time...' she echoed. 'All this time... I have been so afraid you might scorn me if you knew - if you knew how much I love you, Athis... My protective mentor. My lava-bloodied warrior. My - my...'  
  
At this point, Torvar decided to move a few paces backwards into the corridor they had just left, to give the two love-birds some privacy. He lowered himself onto a jutting rock ledge and rested his chin on his fist, staring ahead at a dead spiderling, and trying very hard not to listen to the slurping, smooching sounds right round the corner.  
  
'Gilfre,' he said after a while, addressing the shrivelled critter - for lack of any other props, 'I am a blundering idiot, I know - but you are a mighty fine woman, and to be with you, I will try to sort out this mess I got myself into. You are my...' he paused, creasing his forehead in deep thought. 'My steadfast lumberjack?'  
  
  
The sudden chill that prickled the skin of her chest made Sveta come to her senses a little.  
  
'Oh,' she said quietly, glancing around to figure out what had happened to her bodice.  
  
Athis, standing opposite her with his armour dangerously close to folding into a small bundle at his feet, started and buried his face in his hands.  
  
'I am sorry...' he groaned, passing his trembling fingers over his stubble. 'I am so, so sorry... I know what it must look like to you... You must be thinking that I told you I loved you only to,' something cracked in his voice, 'To have my way with you'.  
  
She smiled and shook her head, finally finding her bodice, untied and dangling round her waist like two petals of a large cloth flower, and pulling it up over her smallclothes.  
  
'Remember what you told me? Don't apologize for making me happy! And who is to say...' her eyes flashed mischievously and the skin between her collar bones blossomed a faint pink at her own words, 'That I didn't tell you I loved you to have my way with you?'  
  
Athis chuckled, fumbling for his armour straps.  
  
'You are beginning to sound like a Dunmer. Perhaps my kisses are contagious... Still, this is neither the best time or the best place. And,' he glanced around guiltily, 'We have completely forgotten about poor Torvar...'  
  
Sveta nodded.  
  
'Tell you what - we help him sort things out with his wife, and then - then...' she bit into her lips.   
  
Her heart thrashed madly against her ribcage, and her blood went to her head like wine, making her act bolder than she would ever have imagined - but she still did not dare to say out loud what she was thinking. Not all of it, anyway.  
  
'What then?' Athis asked, feigning innocence.  
  
She let the corners of her mouth slide upwards in a sly grin - which resembled the expression of a Khajiit raiding a chicken farm. Oh goodness - Dunmer kisses really were contagious!  
  
'Oh, I don't know... I am your apprentice - I will follow your lead'.  
  
  
  
***  
  
  
'Master...' the vampiress hovered in hesitation for a while, and then knocked on the coffin's lid gently with her knuckles.  
  
'Has the sun set yet?' a gruff, sleepy voice asked from beneath the wooden planks.  
  
'No,' she replied. 'But Master...' her white, gaunt face twisted in anxiety. 'The spiders are dead'.  
  
The lid flew aside with a small thud. The master vampire - a tall, wild-haired Altmer with a greyish-yellow face distorted by large, thick creases of skin, and a short, broad nose that was turned up like a bat's - jerked upright and glared at the trembling messenger with his fierce, pupil-less amber eyes.  
  
'What do you mean, dead?!' he spat, making the vampiress back away, cowering slightly.  
  
'M-my sisters and I felt a mortal presence in the cavern,' she explained shakily. 'So we forced ourselves to stay awake and to search the passageways. The mortals must have left before we ventured out of our secret room - but they have killed all our spiders! The young and the queen!'  
  
The master vampire muttered a curse through his teeth.  
  
'I can't believe it! After all this time of sharing the cavern with this brood... But I suppose we should feel lucky that the mortals were too dense to notice the secret door...'  
  
'How - how will we find food for ourselves now, Master?' the vampiress whimpered, arching her eyebrows like a child. 'With the spiders gone, who will put the prey on our tables?'  
  
He curled his lips in a sour sneer, exposing the tips of his fangs.  
  
'We will have to remember how to hunt on our own. Might have to practice tonight... Raid a village or a lumber mill or something'.


	8. Chapter 8

_He has been climbing up for so long that his hands have grown raw and scabby from clawing at the rough rock surface, and his weary mind - no matter whether he keeps his eyes closed or open - is filled with visions of endless jutting ledges, like a stairway leading all the way to the pale blue sky.  
  
When he reaches the summit and glances down, at the grey slopes that cascade into nothingness like a waterfall forever frozen in stone, his heart sinks and he passes his hand over his forehead. The path is supposed to be easier on the way down - but he can't bring himself to make another step. Slowly, his legs unsteady and pulsing with a persistent, dull ache, he lowers himself on the nearest bulging, ice-crusted rock and sighs - deeply, hoarsely, a faint rumble throbbing somewhere deep within his boyishly narrow chest.  
  
The wind lashes at him, tugging at the tangled strands of his long copper hair, snaking its way underneath his battered chitin armour and washing over his skin in an icy wave. He does not mind its chilling touch, though - it soothes the fire that is eating away at his road-weary bones. And the taste - oh, blessed Azura, the taste of this cold mountain wind is... is beyond all words. Crisp, clean, sweet as the sparkling, bubbling water of a happy creek that caresses a wanderer's parched throat - and without a single speck of ash.  
  
For a while, he just roosts there, on top of the mountain ridge - a tiny grey crouching figure that looks like the extension of the smoke-coloured rock. Breathing; in and out, in and out, his chest rising and falling heavily, his nostrils flaring - drinking in the liquid freshness of the mountains' breath. Clearing off the ash that has been grinding against his teeth and clogging his lungs for as long as he can remember.  
  
And after he has rested in the cold wind's embrace, and his weariness has ebbed away, he turns his gaze from the rocky crags at his feet towards the horizon, taking in the lands on the other side of the ridge, which spread as far as the eye can see, to the very misty blue horizon. That gently blurred margin marking the rim of the sky... Sky rim. Skyrim.  
  
And as the reflection of the human province's first reaches shimmers in his wide-open ruby eyes, his heart jolts with a small pang of foreboding. What he sees out there, far over the grim, cold mountains, strangely resembles the ravaged wasteland that he left behind. Just like in his native Ashlands - which after the Red Year cover a far, far greater part of Morrowind than in the old days - the ground here is bright-red and cracked, as the raw flesh underneath the gnarled crust of a wound; and every now and then, it lets out an enormous, swirling gush of white vapour.   
  
The only difference is colour of the sky, and of the large, deep pools that dot the landscape. Back at home, the clouds, heavy with ash that keeps spurting out of the Red Mountain's maw, are pressing their leaden bellies against the horizon, not letting a single ray of light burst through; and the barren, suffering earth is seeping with the rich red blood and the yellow pus of lava - slow, drowsy torrents that gather into bubbling lakes. Here, the great dome overhead is shaded a pale blue, with gentle, feather-like wisps gliding across it every now and again; and the rivers and pools underneath it reflect its colour, darkening it to the brightest, most breathtaking turquoise he has ever seen. Air instead of ash and water instead of lava...  
  
But even though he forces himself to focus on the differences between the volcanic tundra of Eastmarch and the scorched Morrowind wilderness, the similarities refuse to stop haunting him. A sudden thought sinks its claws into his heart - and does not let go. What if this endless crawl west out of the wasteland has been in vain? What if the 'new life' beyond the Velothi ridge, the life that has coloured his dreams into a sweet, rosy hue, keeping him determined to go on with his journey, to see it through to the very end - what if this life will turn out exactly like the miserable existence he has fled from? The same struggle for survival, the same hopeless battle against the great, wide, unforgiving world...  
  
Or maybe it will even get worse, he thinks darkly to himself, turning away from the tundra, kicking at a loose pebble and watching it roll down the mountainside, so tiny compared to the enormous grey mass of rock. He has been wandering all on his own for as long as he can remember, orphaned at such a young age that he does even know his own family name; but at least, he has been treading the ashen roads in the land of his own people. Here, in Skyrim, he will become an outlander. An elf among humans. A stranger watching in from the cold while the local Nords gather round their feast fires and start a loud, bawdy song, interrupted now and again by wild, uncontrollable bursts of laughter and gurgling gulps of mead out of the cup they pass around, from brother to brother...  
  
He shrinks his head into his shoulders, as though crushed down by the weight of the cold, pale sky. The wind's refreshing caress strengthens into bitter, vicious gusts; he shudders from head to foot and, his heart contracting painfully into a tiny, pulsing lump, suddenly feels utterly, overwhelmingly alone... _  
  
  
***  
  
'Er... You feeling all right, buddy?' Torvar asked, squinting suspiciously at Athis, who was striding along in between the two Nords and had suddenly wrapped his right arm round his friend's shoulder and his left round Sveta's waist, smiling what had to be his broadest, goofiest smile yet.  
  
The Dunmer started and released his grip, staggering back a few steps.  
  
'Of course I'm feeling all right!' he snarled, a bright flush scorching his cheekbones and the tips of his ears. 'And stop staring at me like that!'  
  
Sveta pressed herself close to him and rubbed her cheek against his coarse, prickly red stubble.  
  
'Please don't hide your soft side,' she breathed, with a tender smile that made the dazedly happy expression creep back to Athis' face again - only to scurry away like a skittish little beast of the wilds a second later.  
  
'You were thinking about something...' Sveta murmured gently, giving his loosened hair a tentative stroke with her fingertips. 'Something pure and beautiful... I could see it in your eyes, the way they shone... Like Masser in its highest peak...'  
  
Athis looked doubtful for a moment, his eyebrows locking together like two copper hooks; but then, he drew a sigh of resignation and said,  
  
'Oh, fine, I'll share what's on my mind... Just - just don't you two dare laugh at me! I just remembered the day when I first saw this part of Skyrim. I...'   
  
He bit into his lips and plunged his fingers, claw-like, into his copper mane.   
  
'I felt so lonely back then... It was just me against the world. And - and...'   
  
Pausing awkwardly once again, Athis cast down his eyes, his cheeks flaring even brighter than they did before.   
  
'This is why I have avoided going to Eastmarch whenever I could; too many memories of the pathetic little n'wah that I was when I just arrived in Skyrim.'   
  
He swallowed, a vein swelling slightly in his temple; seeing this, Sveta lifted her hand and traced her fingers softly along the sloping side of Athis' forehead and down the line of his cheekbone, looking up into his eyes. The Dunmer's lips twitched; with a small, slightly gasp-like breath, he began talking again,  
  
'And it still is a little strange - returning here now... This is the same tundra where I once stumbled, lost and alone...'   
  
Here, Athis drew a vague semicircle in the air in front of him.  
  
'The earth is the same, and the water, and the air... But I am not. I have returned in the company of my Shield Brother and... and the woman I love... I - I am not lonely any more...'  
  
Athis fell silent - and, with a sudden surge of zeal, took to scratching off an old dried-up speck of blood on his shoulder strap. Sveta's eyes filmed over with warm tears; clinging on to the discomforted, sheepish Dunmer, she kissed him on the corner of his tightly pursed mouth and whispered,  
  
'My dearest, sweetest Athis - I never would have laughed at something like that...'  
  
Torvar looked the two of them over - and then swept them off their feet in an embrace so tight that Sveta and Athis could have sworn they could see stars shooting out of their eyes (or perhaps the stars were due to them being squashed so close to each other).  
  
'Us three make the swellest team ever!' he roared happily, grinding his fist into Athis' hair. 'Or is it the most swollen team? Now, that sounds as if we've been battling killer bees...'  
  
Sveta giggled at his words - as best she could, in the middle of a very convincing imitation of a squeezed-out lemon.  
  
'That's it, mushy time is over!' Athis spluttered, kicking his feet violently in the air. 'Set us down! I think I saw something grove-like down the path! This could be where you left your wife!'  
  
The corners of Torvar's mouth drooped down.  
  
'Oh, right, he muttered, unclasping his intertwined arms and letting Athis and Sveta plop awkwardly down to the ground. 'My wife'.  
  
  
***  
  
  
With the map ruined by river water, they could no longer check if they were following the right route - but the place that they were approaching looked more and more like Witchmist Grove with every next step they took. It fit the name perfectly.   
  
A circle of tall fir trees, shooting to the sky like black spears and clawing at the low-hanging clouds with their twisted branches, which intertwined so closely together that the grove seemed dusky even though the sun had not yet begun to set. White fog rippling drowsily over the withered grass, like a thick, creamy stream, lapping against the pines' thick, gnarled roots. And  perched right in that eerie circle' middle, a lopsided wooden shack, with its gaping, doorless entrance barely visible through a fence of thick, sharp wooden spikes sticking out of the cracked ground in all directions.   
  
As Sveta glanced around her, at the solemn dark pine trunks and the swirling mist and the utterly uninviting shack, a tiny, barely audible whine of fear stirred somewhere deep within her throat; she could not even bring herself to part her lips and let it out. Athis took her hand in his and kissed her reassuringly on the top of the head - but he himself looked ill at ease, his lithe body growing tenser by the second, as though he was preparing for a pounce... or waiting for something to pounce at him.   
  
The two of them were brought to their senses when the big Nord let out a loud gulp. When first hearing the sound, they started violently; Sveta even leapt into the air - but in a few moments (realizing that it was no unknown horror lurking behind the toothless jaws of the shack's entrance, but just good old Torvar) they sighed with relief and let their guard down a little. Torvar, however, still remained more than a bit discomforted.  
  
'Do... Do you think I asked for the hand of - of an actual witch?' he asked shakily, peering at the spike nearest to him - and cringing as he spotted glistening traces of something suspiciously red.  
  
'You won't know until you find out,' Athis replied curtly; but then, seeing a shadow of ever so slight disapproval glide across Sveta's face, hurried to add,  
  
'I've got your back, friend. You know that'.  
  
'O-Okay...' Torvar filled his broad chest with air almost to bursting point, as though preparing for a dive, and stepped onto the first of the rickety wooden planks that led up to the shack's threshold. 'I will need you in case she gets upset and turns me into a toad'.  
  
Athis opened his mouth to make a comment about Torvar the Toad hopping from meadery to meadery and swiping mugs with his long, darting tongue - but thought better of it.  
  
'Get this over with,' he said quietly, prodding his friend slightly in the back. 'You can do it. Just go in, and if she's there, tell her you want the ring back'.  
  
'Right. Go in and tell her. I'm on it'.  
  
Screwing up his eyes and bending his head forward like a charging bull, Torvar raced up the remaining planks and burst inside the shack. He spent about a quarter of a minute rooted to one spot, listening intently to the rustling darkness around him. The shack was unsettlingly quiet, save for the hissing whispers carried in from the grove outside - and what sounded like heavy, raspy breathing. His heart and stomach tying themselves into knots, Torvar tore open one eye, then another - and squeaked like a mouse with its tail caught into a trap.  
  
The shack only had one room, small and cramped, with tiny animal bones littering the floor - and most of the space in that room was filled by an enormous oaken bed, with a massive carved headrest - like the ones you see in the best inns in big cities. There were no bedclothes to speak of, just a battered old mattress, which had the woolen stuffing sticking out of broad, wound-like tears, and bunches of wild woodland flowers scattered over it, stems and soiled roots and all. And over that mattress lay, reclining on one elbow and dangling one foot coquettishly, one of the most repulsive creatures Torvar had ever seen, drunk or sober.   
  
It - she? - looked like an old woman, with a sunken mouth that had one curved yellow fang sticking out of it, a hooked nose that almost touched her jutting, warty chin, and loose, flabby folds of skin dangling where her neck was supposed to be. But at the same time, she wasn't exactly an old woman; her arms and legs ended in massive, blade-like black claws, and there were long, ruffled feathers growing right from underneath her skin, bursting out of bloated red pimples.  
  
A Hagraven. Torvar had tackled those creatures once or twice - though he had never seen one this close before, as most of the his tackling had amounted to cowering behind a rock under a raging shower of fire bolts, while Aela or someone else skilled with a bow was shooting at the hags from a distance. And from the way the creature looked, he doubted he would ever want to get a close-up view again.   
  
The most disturbing thing about this Hagraven - to Torvar's mind, at least - were the clothes that she was wearing. She had stuffed her shrivelled, feathered body inside some sort of grimy, tattered sack that had supposedly been a dress, in some bygone, long-forgotten age, when the mighty Ysgramor was a wee lad clinging on to his mother's skirt (hey, perhaps that dress had belonged to Ysgramor's mother?). The three greasy, wire-like hairs, still - by some dark magic, no doubt - clinging on to the hag's head, were covered by a snatch of see-through dusty-grey cloth; and her thin, almost non-existent lips were painted with a thick layer of the same suspiciously red substance that covered the spikes of her fence.  
  
'Ysmir's hairy legs, what's going on here?' Torvar mumbled, wiping the sweat off his face with one hand and slowly drawing his axe with another.  
  
The Hagraven stirred, parting her lips in a hungry leer and letting the only remaining sleeve of her dress slide off her shoulder.  
  
'Daarling,' she croaked, batting her lashless eyelids. 'You've returned... I have been waiting for you - to...' she clapped her clawed paw meaningfully against the bed, 'To consummate our love...'  
  
Torvar felt as if he had just taken a plunge into a vat of strong liquor. This - this was his fiancée? The maiden of mystery that he had proposed to under the tallest tree in this blasted grove, surrounded by a swarm of whatever-flying-bugs?  
  
'Athis...' he moaned, in a half-strangled, high-pitched voice. 'Athis, help me...'  
  
The Dunmer rushed inside, sword on the ready, Sveta following closely at his heels. Seeing the bed, he stopped in his tracks and, after whirling his head from the luxuriating bride to the petrified groom and back again, hissed out a long and elaborate curse in his native tongue.  
  
'I never thought someone - anyone! - could get so drunk!'  
  
'Who are these interlopers, sweetness?' the Hagraven wheezed coyly. 'We do not want anyone spoiling our honeymoon, do we?'  
  
The Dunmer stepped forward, giving the feathered bride a courteous bow and struggling with all his might to keep a straight face; which was a great feat indeed, as he was torn apart by two overwhelming impulses, longing both to thrash Torvar against the wall, for being an impossible, blundering s'wit - and to thrash his own self against the wall, in a fit of hysterical laughter. A Hagraven! By the Three, a Hagraven! That Sam fellow had surely played a crazy prank on the poor fool...   
  
But these creatures were not to be trifled with - the moment she found out that the wedding was off, the hag would fry all three of them to a crisp with her fiendish magic. That was why he had to keep in control - to switch on that Dunmer charm that had come in handy when sneaking into Dibella's Inner Sanctum, and to talk his way out of this. The Nords were no help at all: Torvar was still standing like a lantern post with his mouth opened wider than a hungry alit's; and poor precious Sveta, who had to be seeing a Hagraven for the first time in her life, was trembling from head to foot, her fingernails stuffed in between two rows of chattering teeth. It all depended on Athis... Now, he had to waggle his eyebrows, right?  
  
'Muthsera,' he began, breathing in deeply and staring unblinkingly into the hag's beady, bird-like black eyes, like a hunter confronted by a wild beast. 'We... We regret to inform you... That the marriage arrangements have been... er... cancelled. My friend here would like to have his ring back'.  
  
'What?!' the Hagraven leapt off the bed and waddled up to Torvar, her claws making a sharp scraping noise against the filthy floorboards. 'You want it for that hussy Esmerelda, with the dark feathers - don't you? Don't you?!'  
  
Shaking in fury, she sank her fingers deep into the bare flesh of Torvar's arms, drawing small, zigzagging streams of blood. Her eyes widening at the sight of dark red lines snaking their way down to her big kinsman's elbows, Sveta jerked her hands out of her mouth and let out a frightened yelp; the sound made the Hagraven glance over her shoulder, cocking her head to the side.  
  
'Oh, I see...' she hissed, letting go of Torvar and pattering over to Sveta - who retched uncontrollably as the hag's rancid breath scorched the inside of her nose. 'It isn't Esmerelda you want to wed! You have dumped me for this little morsel... This pretty, smooth-skinned young thing! Well, we'll see just how pretty she'll look after I'm done with her!'  
  
And before either of the two men could intervene, she lurched forward at Sveta, making her stagger backwards, her feet getting entangled in her own skirt - and ripped at the skin on her left cheek with her steel-hard claws. Whimpering with pain, Sveta struggled to shake the Hagraven off, to avoid her groping, predatory paws - but she had pressed her against the wall, gripping her tightly, twisting her limbs round her, filling her nose and mouth with bristling, foul-smelling feathers... and tearing deeper and deeper into her face, till blood came spurting out and coloured the hag's ruffled plumage a deep crimson.  
  
Crying out as if the creature's claws had sunk into his own flesh - into his very heart - Athis charged at the Hagraven, his sword tearing through the ripples of her soiled dress (which was rather hard, as the layer of dirt had crusted over the cloth, making it almost as hard as chainmail) and making it fall to the ground, exposing the stringy, sickly-grey flesh. With an outraged shriek, the hag turned away from Sveta, who slumped down helplessly to the floor, pressing her hand against her bleeding cheek. Athis flinched at seeing his darling Scrib in pain, and lifted his sword for another strike - but before he could charge at her, the Hagraven lit up a flaming orb in her paw.   
  
Noticing her gesture, the Dunmer skidded aside across the floor, trying to maneuver among skeever skulls and half-gnawed rabbit carcasses. The magical projectile missed its target and broke against the opposite wall, setting off a bright burst of pulsing orange light, accompanied by a shock wave that knocked both Athis and Torvar off their feet.   
  
When the two warriors were finally able to tell which way was up and which was down, they clambered to their feet, rubbed their eyes, which still stung from the fierce flash of light - and swore in a stifled chorus. The magical flames had begun to spread up the wall, munching on the wood with a hungry crackle.   
  
The Hagraven froze on the spot, facing the swelling, billowing fiery veil and watching in dumbfounded disbelief as the her own spell, cast in a fit of jealous rage, was destroying her home; against the bright blaze, her figure was outlined a smooth, spotless black, like some sort of grotesque paper cut-out coloured in ink. Seeing that she was distracted, Athis rushed to where she had tossed Sveta.  
  
Or rather, he attempted to rush - in truth, it took him an excruciating eternity to cross the short distance that was separating him from his little Scrib. The shack was rapidly filling with smoke, which, along with the sweltering heat, made it difficult for him to breathe; the large golden embers landed on his skin, circling slowly, and sent sharp pangs of pain shooting through his flesh, as though some invisible fanged beast was gnawing at his bare arms; the burning wall was beginning to fall apart, so he had to pause after every step, swivelling his head in apprehension, lest a smouldering wooden board come crushing down in front of him. But, at long last, he reached his poor, terrified Sveta, who was cowering in the corner, unable to tear her eyes away from the dance of the fire - a wild, entrancing sweep across an ever-widening dance floor.  
  
'Get up,' he urged hoarsely, grabbing her by the hand and straining to pull her to her feet. 'Get up! We must leave this blasted furnace before it's too late!'  
  
She staggered to an upright position as best she could, coughing violently as the smoke clawed at her throat, and groping at Athis for support.   
  
'What... What about... her?' she wheezed, pointing at the Hagraven.  
  
Torvar's former bride was still gaping at the fire, cawing in desperation and helpless anger and slowly backing away - for the blaze had now consumed about half of the shack and kept advancing, ready to gulp down the entire rickety building, together with the four helpless creatures stumbling about inside it.  
  
'B'vek, what do you mean?' Athis asked sharply as he pulled Sveta towards the gaping doorway, hunching his back in order to avoid breathing in too much smoke, and making her do the same by forcefully pressing her shoulders down. Torvar had already managed to push through and was waiting for them on the shack's threshold, arms outstretched, eyes gleaming anxiously against the dark-grey background of his soot-smeared face.  
  
'It's a... a horrible way to die... Burning alive inside her own house...' Sveta coughed, wriggling in the Dunmer's firm grasp.  
  
'Don't,' Athis spat, closing his arms tighter and tighter around her to prevent her from eeling out and attempting to rescue the Hagraven. 'I said - don't! It's the story with the trolls, all over again! When will you stop feeling sorry for every beast we fight?!'  
  
They were merely a few steps away from the exit; Athis could already see the dusky grove behind Torvar's back, could almost hear the sigh of the wind rushing in through the doorway - but just as they were about to dash outside, he suddenly felt Sveta stop struggling, growing tense and stiff.  
  
'I am sorry, Athis,' she whispered, her voice cracking with tears. 'I - I can't leave her like this...'   
  
And mustering all her strength, she pushed him out of her way - so that he lost his balance and fell off the shack's porch - and dove back into the heart of the fiery tempest.  
  
  
She found the Hagraven crouching in the middle of a unbearably bright, scorching golden circle, which grew narrower and narrower, closing in around her - as though she was sitting on the palm of a gigantic hand with long burning fingers, and those fingers were about to clench into a fist.   
  
There were barely any gaps in between the blazing pillars, and the ones that still remained melted away at a speed that made Sveta's heart go numb with an overwhelming sensation of helplessness. She already had half a mind to abandon this pointless heroism, and to scurry back to Torvar and Athis before the flaming vortex sucked her in - but then, she turned her thoughts to the Hagraven. To what she had to be feeling, staring right into the face of death... a blank, eyeless face with an enormous maw and fangs of fire. To the way the unbearable, stifling heat had to be wringing her lungs, and the way her skin had to blister and crack as the hungry flame tongues darted forward, attempting to lick her.  
  
And as she imagined the hag's suffering, Sveta flexed her small, milk-drinkerly jaw, knitted her eyebrows and strode forward, finding a path between two shimmering golden walls. Reaching the Hagraven, she shut her eyes and tossed her head from side to side to block out her repulsive image - and put her arm round the sharp, jutting, feathered shoulders. The Hagraven squawked in surprise - but still let Sveta drag her out of the flames into the open air. As the girl and the hag staggered towards the spiky fence, the shack's burning roof caved in, and the whole rickety wooden carcass folded up like a house of cards, sending a farewell burst of golden sparks towards the dark dome of fir branches overhead.  
  
'Sveta! By the Three, you are safe!'   
  
Athis, wild-eyed and sweating, had darted after Sveta the moment he got back to his feet, and had managed to intercept her on her way back, on the shack's doorstep, and to usher her and the Hagraven outside, supporting them both (very reluctantly, in the hag's case) and keeping them from losing their footing when the building collapsed behind their backs.  
  
His first impulse, when they finally stepped on firm rocky soil, at a more or less safe distance from the burning building, had been to shower Sveta with kisses - but instead, he grabbed her hag-free arm and gave it a violent tug.  
  
'Come on!' he commanded, his voice changing its pitch uncontrollably. 'We need to keep going! If the grass and the trees catch fire too, we'll be done for. Will you let go of the creature now, blast it?!'  
  
Sveta blinked dazedly, her head swimming with how cold and fresh the air around her felt, compared to the blazing bowels of the shack. The Hagraven, on the other hand, seemed to have come to her senses much faster. While Sveta was stumbling forward blindly, still processing Athis' words, her feathered ward flashed her beetle-black eyes and bared her (very few) uneven teeth, jeering maliciously.  
  
'Thank you, morsels,' she cawed - and, with a powerful sweep of her long, gnarled paw, slashed her claws across Athis' chest.   
  
The dark, bleeding markings on his skin were, as brave heroes are so fond of saying, merely a flesh wound - but the sharp pain still made him let go of Sveta; seizing the opportunity, the Hagraven made a second swipe with her claws, this time plunging them claws deep into the other 'morsel''s stomach.  
  
As she tore them out with a loud, juicy squelch, Sveta glanced down at the damp red spot spreading across her bodice, arching her eyebrows in an expression of mild surprise - and collapsed to the ground. The Hagraven bent over her, licking her lips with her long, narrow tongue, covered with a thin layer of greyish-white, flaking slime.  
  
'I think I will take this little thing's heart while it's still beating,' she mused to herself. 'It will serve as a perfect base ingredient for a love potion that will make my sweetheart stay with me forever and ever...'  
  
'Not a chance'.  
  
Torvar, who had been trotting silently at his Dunmer friend's side, now decided that it was time to step in. Shoving past the stunned, slightly swaying Athis, who was gaping down at Sveta with his fingers clawing at his temples, the big Nord loomed over his feathered bride, axe bared.  
  
'I don't know what kind of stuff I drank to hook up with a hag like you - but now it's not even funny. You fix little Scrib's wounds and then leave us alone - or you die!'  
  
The Hagraven stared at him in surprise - and, seeing the hardened lines of his grimy face and the fierce glint in his blue eyes, cried out shrilly and leapt forward, claws ready to strike. But before she could give her treacherous betrothed as much as a scratch, he brought down his weapon and, in a single ferocious strike, severed the flabby grey neck, sending the hag's hideous head flying into the air till it landed somewhere out of sight (in a rabbit hole, perhaps).   
  
Then, he bent over the misshapen, half-birdlike body, which was still thrashing against the ground, much like that of a chicken, destined for the soup and still running around the kitchen backyard after its poor head has been chopped off - and tore the thick golden band off one of the Hagraven's claws.  
  
'I will take that, thank you very much,' he said grimly.  
  
As he straightened up, he noticed that his shadow had somehow grown longer and darker, and that the ground at his feet was drowning in a pool of shimmering golden glow - and, blinking in confusion, looked over his shoulder.   
  
The fire from the shack was slowly creeping over to the nearest trees.  
  
'Oh, flying mammoth poop!' Torvar cried out in exasperation. 'We need to get the Oblivion outta here! Buddy - can you hear me?'  
  
It took Athis a long while to attach a meaning to the sounds made by the large, vaguely Torvar-like shape dancing in front of him. Once again, he had found himself kneeling at Sveta's side, watching her slowly resurfacing from the void. This time, he did not have to use his sword to check if she was breathing - he could see her stomach rising and falling, making the fabric of her dress swell into a red bubble.   
  
Trembling as though in a fever, gagging on his own frenzied heart, he took to bandaging her wound as best he could, using the same old multi-purpose miner's shirt, which was soon going to be reduced to a tiny, fraying snatch of cloth.   
  
His movements were abrupt and awkward - for he was blinded by a dense, hot, salty liquid that was rapidly filling his eyes. He tried to tell himself that it was because of the soot - but deep down, he knew it was a lie. Soot had nothing to do with it.  
  
He was crying because he was tired. So very, very tired of the goddamn Scrib constantly getting in over her head and having him save her from certain death and drop to his knees next to her, over and over and over, till he felt as though he was a character in some never-ending second-rate adventure novel.   
  
What if one day, he would come to the rescue a minute, a second too late? What if one day, he would be rendered helpless by something completely stupid, like not knowing how to swim - and fail Sveta when she needed him most? What if one day, he would lose her forever, and that overpowering, wounding loneliness would return? How - how dared she put herself in danger like that?   
  
'You little n'wah,' he panted raspingly, a little tear droplet dangling off the tip of his nose, 'You brainless, inconsiderate little n'wah... Pushed me away, did you? Pushed me away to save a crazy old witch?' he let out a loud, shaky sniff. 'Do you have any idea how your blunders break my heart?'  
  
Sveta opened her eyes - and gripped her throat when she saw the tears streaming down the Dunmer's cheeks.   
  
'Oh, Athis,' she groaned, sitting up and twisting her arms round his head, making him press his face against her chest. 'Athis, I am so sorry... I... I couldn't help it... I know it was stupid of me - but I couldn't stop myself... Please... Please don't cry...'   
  
Through the flesh of her interlocked arms, she could feel his jerking heartbeat; his shoulders twitching convulsively, he was grasping at her dress like a drowning man struggling frantically to stay afloat - and the more she tried to soothe him, the more violent his sobs became. He cried with the abandon of a child in pain. Setting loose the lava-like torrent that had been scorching the inside of his chest for so long; letting it flood his mind and drown his reason; sinking into it, deeper and deeper, till the whole world faded away save for the two frail arms holding him close.  
  
'Hush... Hush, my love...' Sveta whispered, burying her face in Athis' hair. 'I... I promise I will never hurt you again... Gods, I hate myself so much - knowing that I make you suffer...'  
  
Athis tore himself away from her and looked up, his eyes shimmering like pools of spilled wine, surrounded by puffed up folds of skin and smeared spots of soot.  
  
'Don't say that,' he said, barely moving his lips, his throat contracting with a shuddering hiccup after every word. 'Don't say that... It's not about you... It's about me... I... I dread the thought that I will be left alone again...'  
  
'You will not... I promise'.  
  
With a gentle smile, Sveta embraced him once again - and at long last, his sobs began growing weaker, slowly fading into low, blissful sighs, as he nestled himself close to her, breathing in the smoky smell of her hair and repeatedly touching the skin over her collarbone with his hot, quivering lips. And as the pain and fear ebbed away, they were replaced with embarrassment and slight irritation.  
  
He had been such a pathetic weakling, falling apart like that! And over what?! Some stupid, paranoid notion that he would lose his Sveta! B'vek, he should be basking in her love, not tormenting both himself and his precious Scrib with pointless 'what-if's!  
  
With a stifled 'Hrmph!', he lifted his head, blinking off the last small teardrop stragglers; his eyebrows soared almost up to his hairline, and his pupils shrank to tiny pin points, as he realized that all this time he and Sveta had been exchanging embraces and mushy cooing against the golden backdrop of wildfire, which seemed determined to keep eating away at the grove till there would be nothing left save for a few solitary charred tree trunks, for it to pick its teeth with.  
  
'Dammit!' the Dunmer cawed in alarm, leaping to his feet and dragging Sveta up with him. 'I knew the fire would spread!'  
  
'That was I've been trying to tell you!' Torvar piped in. 'But you were too busy crying on Scrib's boo... er, bosom'.  
  
Colour draining from his face, Athis lifted his sword and pressed its tip against the fringe of the big Nord's beard.  
  
'Never. Mention. This. Scene. Again'.  
  
'All right, all right!' Torvar lifted his arms defensively into the air. 'When are we gonna stop bickering and start running?'  
  
  
***  
  
  
Straining every sinew till they could almost hear their legs screech with pain, gasping for breath till they could almost feel their lungs fill up with scorchingly hot blood, the three Companions had raced to safety.  
  
As they really had spent too much time talking, the fire had been following them closely the entire time - a feral hound racing over the dry grass, snapping its jaws inches away from their boots. But, after a wild dash across the flaming grove and a splash across a shallow spring, they finally clambered up a large jutting rock, which was far out of the great burning beast's reach. Panting till their chests were gripped by retching spasms, they threw themselves on the ground - and Sveta finally got the chance to heal both herself and her darling Dunmer.  
  
'I... I think I'm going to have scars left from those claw marks...' she said squeakily, feeling the bulging scabs on her face.  
  
'If you want to start whining about how ugly it'll make you,' Athis murmured, 'This is my answer'.  
  
Pulling himself up towards her, he kissed her full on the mouth; blushing and moaning with pleasure as their tongues touched, Sveta rolled herself on top of him, tearing at his mouth with the hunger of that blaze that, somewhere out there, was finishing off Witchmist Grove.  
  
Torvar shook his head and smirked condescendingly into his beard.  
  
'Man, I still can't believe I almost married a Hagraven,' he said to himself, gazing up into the vast, clear evening sky, which faded from rich, vivid blue to faint green on the horizon - and tossing the ill-fated wedding ring up and down in his hand. 'But at least I'll sort things out with Gilfre. Hey guys!' he called out, raising his voice. 'You wanna visit Mixwater Mill on the way back to Whiterun?'  
  
'Mhm,' Athis replied, shifting his head to get a better bite at Sveta's mouth.


	9. Chapter 9

It was already dark when the mill finally came into view - a handful of tiny buildings huddled together on the river bank, underneath the giant, sweeping, velvety-blue wings of the sky. The hungry blaze, having gulped down Witchmist Grove, had found its further way barred by rocks and countless lakes - and so, it had gone to sleep, digesting its meal like one of those giant serpents that inhabit the south-western reaches of Tamriel. Gilfre's home had remained unscathed, much to everyone's relief (Torvar's, especially) - but as the three adventurers trudged side by side through the wilds, following the drowsy murmurs of the river, they suddenly realized that none of the little shacks' windows were lit. Blank and empty, they stared out into the dusk like the dark, blind sockets of a skull.  
  
She must have gone to sleep, Torvar told himself, over and over again, as the lightless buildings drew ever closer. Yes, she must have gone to sleep. It is hard work, running a lumber mill with no one to lend a helping hand - and after a day of tireless drudgery, Gilfre's only wish must have been to toss herself into her bed... Especially after - after how last night had turned out. She would want to forget it all, to seek solace by plunging into blissful oblivion..  
  
He kept forcing this thought into his mind, straining so hard that his eyes came dangerously close to popping out of their sockets, his face grew red, and the sinews on his neck stood out, thick and bulging like an aging Argonian's. But try as he might, he was unable to chase off the dark, icy-cold sense of foreboding, which pressed heavily at his heart, pushing it down till it sank somewhere into his innards, and began splashing around among the last remnants of the snack (prepared and packed by Gilfre) that he had had some time in between leaving the spider cave and arriving at his spouse's humble abode.   
  
And the poor, hapless heart remained in the big Nord's stomach up until the three friends stopped a few steps away from Gilfre's house, and Athis, frowning suspiciously and groping for his sword hilt, slid up to the front door and pushed it gently with his fingertips. It swung inwards with a faint, sob-like creak, which, after gnawing at the adventurers' hearing for a few seconds, was consumed by overwhelming, impenetrable silence - like a little stone tossed into a stagnant pond is consumed by its rank, murky, slurping waters. And then - then Torvar's heart soared up (bits of moist, half-digested bread and cheese probably still sticking to it) and before he could catch his breath, it leapt straight into his mouth.  
  
Everything in Gilfre's little shack that was touched by the pale ray of light from the outside - everything bore signs of a recent struggle. The furniture was tossed around, legs in the air, its outlines looming through the semi-darkness like the carcasses of some bizarre monsters; the floor was covered in a thick, scaly layer of sharp ceramic shards - and Gilfre was nowhere to be seen.   
  
Before either Athis or Sveta could say a word, Torvar stumbled inside and began wandering around the wreckage, his knees wobbly, his legs unsteady - bumping into an overturned chest of drawers here or a half-crushed chair there; picking up a cracked soup bowl or a bent spoon, staring at it dumbly for a while and then letting it slip out of his numb fingers and thunk back down to the floor.   
  
His movements were clumsy, uncontrollable, as though he was drunk - but while the good old familiar sight of a 'tight-as-a-boiled-shalk' Torvar, waddling through the streets of Whiterun, taking two steps backwards for each step forward, would have made Athis feel irritated and, at the same time, mildly amused, the scene that he was witnessing now wrung at his heart like at a wet towel, making tiny droplets of blood come dancing down, drip-drip-drip.  
  
'She isn't here, friend', the Dunmer said softly, coming up to Torvar from behind.  
  
Then, his eyes narrowed slightly, as he saw the big Nord's shoulders jerk, much like his own shoulders had done when he was spilling his soul on Sveta's... bosom; and he switched back to his more usual, curt manner,  
  
'So instead of moping around, let's focus on figuring out what took her, shall we?'  
  
Torvar made a muffled, barely coherent sound, and lowered himself onto Gilfre's bed, which had been shifted to the side and now blocked half the room crosswise, white zigzagging skid marks running across the floor up to its lopsided legs. His ruffle-haired chin resting on his fist, he watched the Dunmer dully as he tiptoed about the room, maneuvering among broken plates and overturned chairs and looking for clues - while Sveta was still hovering on the threshold, shaking her head in horror and disbelief, wiping off silent tears.  
  
'I don't see any blood...' Athis mused slowly, his red eyes scanning the debris at his feet. 'So I guess, this rules out wild animals - they would have mauled Gilfre to death here and dragged her body off to their den to pick the flesh off her bones...'  
  
'Athis!' Sveta squeaked from the background, pointing emphatically at Torvar's mournfully hunched figure. 'Can... Can we skip the details?'  
  
The Dunmer let out a small, sheepish cough and hurried to go on,  
  
'Er... Right. Those weren't wild animals. Not bandits, either - those brutish n'wahs carry weapons... weapons that draw blood. I know, I know - no details,' he added, shooting a sideways glance at Sveta. 'So I'd say our lumberjack friend was abducted by a mage, or a whole bunch of mages... They definitely sound like the sort of people who'd wreak havoc without making the victim bleed'.  
  
'M-maybe they used ice spells?' Sveta suggested meekly. 'Or shock... I mean - look what happened to that poor Hagraven's home! And Gilfre's house still stands, so those weren't fire mages for sure...'  
  
Torvar looked up, his eyes flashing between the tangled strands of hair.  
  
'I don't care what sorta spells they used!' he growled, lifting himself heavily to his feet. 'All I wanna know is where they took her, and how soon I can start bashing their heads in!'  
  
To give extra weight to his last few words, he bared his axe and gave it a couple of broad, swooshing swings. After this little display, apparently feeling that it was not enough to fully express his Nordic zeal, he grabbed the very first object that his wandering fingers chanced across - a sooty, bent-in old frying pan - and lifted it into the air, as though it was another weapon he was dual-wielding together with the axe. And then, he froze in this war-like pose, his eyebrows crawling together like two bushy caterpillars; blinked a few times; pushed his lips forward, as though preparing to whistle - and shifted the frying pan closer to his face, not taking his eyes off it.  
  
Glued firmly to the trusty old utensil's edge, which was very sticky with layer upon layer of congealed grease, there was something small, and yellowish-white, and shaped a bit like an arrowhead. The tip of a long, sharp, pointed tooth; Gilfre must have broken it off while bashing one of her assailants in the face with this very frying pan.  
  
'Well, saddle me up and call me a guar,' Athis muttered, peering over Torvar's shoulder (this remark might or might not have made Sveta draw a mental picture that she was very, very ashamed of). 'This looks like a vampire's fang! That explains why there's no blood - they didn't want to spill a drop before...' his throat contracted painfully, and he finished in a faltering, hoarse half-whisper, 'Before dinner'.  
  
The disgraceful image (which might or might not have been dancing around in Sveta's head) dissolved with a small 'pop', and the timid little Nord bit violently into her fingernails, sniveling a little. In her tear-filled eyes, the ransacked room suddenly filled itself with ominous black shadows - gliding from corner to corner; hissing and spitting, their dagger-like teeth bared in uncontrollable, predatory hunger; glaring ahead with cold, lifeless eyes...  
  
'Shor's bones!' Torvar choked. 'You don't really think... But it does look an awful lot like... So - so they took her with them?'  
  
'It appears they did...'  
  
Athis' voice was slow and drawling, with the kind of lazy raspiness that, under different circumstances, would have made Sveta swoon - but the pupils of his eyes were darting madly to and fro, following the frantic rhythm of the countless thoughts and theories buzzing inside his head.   
  
'They have to have a lair nearby, to hide from the sun - maybe it's that cave we came across earlier, the one with the spiders? We did not explore it thoroughly, after all... I remember Skjor telling me on one of our expeditions that vampires often bind lesser beasts to their will and use them as guardians. The clan he and I fought had a pack of wolves protecting them from intruders... If wolves, why not spiders?'  
  
'Let's get going then!' Torvar cut him short, clashing his axe and frying pan together with a deafening rattle.  
  
They were already on their way out when the big Nord added, a tiny smirk breaking through the storm clouds darkening his face,  
  
'She did put up quite a fight, though, didn't she? Hit the bloodsucker right in the mug! Ahh, what a woman...'  
  
  
***  
  
  
'And there we have it,' the master vampire said, rubbing his hands together with a complacent leer, looking down at the captured mortal creature, which had been dragged through the secret door and tossed onto the wooden feast table by his servants.  
  
'I knew we would manage quite well on our own, without relying on our eight-legged friends'.  
  
He was being far too lenient, of course; in truth, the clan was terribly, shamefully out of practice. The task of capturing the prey had taken them a lot of circling round the room, combined with a generous share of ducking and sliding into darkened corners, under a never-ending torrent of tableware, and chairs, and half-eaten carrots, and other whatnots that the insolent tidbit kept hurling at them. And one of the fledglings had even managed to get her fang snapped in two when the mortal grabbed a frying pan and shoved it into her mouth.   
  
But he would scold and deride them for it later - tomorrow, perhaps? For now, the long-awaited dish of succulent human flesh was set down on the table, ready to be carved - and first and foremost, they had to quench their burning thirst.  
  
After that ludicrous scuffle at the lumber mill, the master had finally managed to cast a frost spell, which had swept over the broken furniture, leaving in its wake an intricate silvery trace, which would evaporate after a few seconds; rising to the shack's ceiling in a tall, glowing pale-blue wave, the torrent of icy magic had come crushing down upon the prey, piercing its skin with thousands of tiny, scorchingly cold needles, and had rendered the mortal creature completely helpless - paralyzed, drained of all strength, and completely in its captors' power.  
  
The spell was powerful enough to keep the prey petrified even now - a stiff, statue-like figure, lying before him with its arms pressed against its sides and its legs wrapped tightly into a frosty net, which pulsed with a faint blue light.   
  
The only thing that the creature was still able to move were its eyes; their whites glinting in the semi-darkness of the vampires' lair, their irises jerking wildly, they followed every movement of the master's bony, claw-nailed fingers, as, dancing and twitching like the legs of a spider, they travelled along the mortal's face and neck. Squeezing the skin. Searching for the warm, soft, deliciously pulsing artery.  
  
Ah, that foolish, foolish mortal! The creature had no reason to be so terrified - apart from keeping it contained, the ice magic would also lessen any pain it would be in, just as the spiders' venom would have done. After all, the vampires had to both keep the food alive and to save themselves the hassle of dealing with all that annoying thrashing.  
  
'By my right as the clan's leader, I shall be the first to taste this mortal,' the Altmeri vampire hissed, slanting his blazing yellow eyes to make out the expressions of his female fledglings, who were hovering at a respectable distance behind his back.  
  
The lesser vampires bowed deeply, to acknowledge that they obeyed their master's will. The Altmer leered in satisfaction, exposing his fangs, and slashed the long, hard nail of his index finger across the mortal's temple. If it could, the creature would have squeaked in terror and tried to jerk away - but thanks to the spell's power, its blank terror was reflected only in the movement of its pupils, which shrank to tiny dots and then widened till their blackness almost flooded the meal's entire eyes.  
  
Slowly, very slowly, like ripe, glistening apples about to fall off the branch, three perfect dark-red droplets rolled down from the scratch on the mortal's skin; the vampire half-closed his eyes, inhaling the inebriating smell of fresh blood, lowered his face to the creature's - and, taking his time to prolong his dark, feral excitement, stuck out his tongue between two rows of teeth and licked off the sweet red drink.  
  
The females waited patiently for their turn as the master clicked his tongue in satisfaction, like mortals do when they taste fine wines - and only the yellow flame that thrashed inside their eyes betrayed their longing. They wished desperately that the Altmer would stop playing with his food and would get his fill already, so they could step up to the table and have a bite at the prey - but what could they say? He was the clan's leader.  
  
The youngest of the fledglings, the one who had gotten smacked in the face with a frying pan, had worries of her own eating away at her poor little undead mind. During the entire way back from the lumber mill, she had kept her mouth pursed tightly, struggling to stop herself from feeling her broken tooth with her tongue; and even though her sisters had not said a word about her little mishap, she could sense their mocking stares eating away at the greyish, cold flesh on the back of her neck. A vampire with one fang... She would be the laughing stock of the whole clan! And - and how would she feed when her turn came?   
  
The thought of how helpless, how utterly ridiculous she would look, trying and failing to puncture the mortal's skin, made her whimper out loud, clenching her fists in helpless frustration. The sound made the master tear away from the feast (he had moved over to the veins on the mortal's wrists and was taking swift, kiss-like gulps of blood out of the fresh scratches he had made) and look her over from head to toe, his angular eyebrows crawling up.  
  
'Still upset about the frying pan incident, pet?' he breathed softly.   
  
Drop by drop, draught by draught, he had already managed to get a good taste of the mortal; the first sharp, salty prickle of blood against his tongue and palate, after an unbearable eternity of thirst, had mellowed him, and the contempt he felt towards the little fledgling's incompetence had ebbed away.  
  
'It's nothing, Master,' the lesser vampire responded, inclining her head submissively and trying very hard not to open her mouth too wide.  
  
'Come closer now,' the Altmer beckoned her playfully, licking the traces of blood off his lips.   
  
The red drink was rapidly going to his head, and he felt one of his mischievous moods coming on (and his mischievous moods never ended well for the likes of the hapless, frozen mortal on the feast table).  
  
'Why don't you give this creature a little taste of its own medicine? You know what mortals say - an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth'.  
  
As the one-fanged fledgling drew to the table, her expression slightly puzzled, the Altmer flicked his hand through the air, the tips of his fingernails lighting up with dots of bright, brownish-gold glow. Summoned by the vampire's magic, a pair of old, rusty tongs came whizzing across the secret room, landing with a metallic clank on the table's very edge.  
  
'There you go, pet,' the Altmer said with a broad, generous gesture. 'One of the old implements we used for... playing with our thralls; long ago, before you were turned. Go ahead. Use it. Pull out a few of the mortal's teeth as punishment for breaking yours. I can even...' he added, in a moment of half-drunken inspiration, 'I can even ease the hold of the spell, so the creature can begin to feel pain'.  
  
The meal moaned helplessly, dew-like drops of perspiration trailing down its forehead (despite the freezing embrace of the spell) as it strained its numb muscles, trying to make its limbs move. The fledgling's eyes lit up in excitement. This sounded like so much fun!  
  
Completely forgetting about her resolution not to part her lips unless absolutely necessary, the young vampiress made a loud sucking noise, picturing vividly how the insolent wretch that had shamed her would writhe in agony, and how blood would come spurting in all directions... A whole fountain of vividly red, refreshing blood, washing over her hands, splattering across her face, getting into her open, ravenous mouth...  
  
Grinning like a child on Life's Day morning (she was still young enough to remember mortal holiday celebrations) the vampiress closed her fingers round the tongs and bent over the mortal, her heart coming so very close to beating again as the creature's mortified expression shot an invigorating pang of malicious joy through her entire body.  
  
The master had stayed true to his promise; at a commanding snap of his fingers, the glow of the ice magic grew dimmer, and the morsel even managed to shrink its head defensively into its shoulders. This had to mean that the protective shield of numbness had been lifted, and the flesh of the creature's soft pink gums would be pierced with a throbbing surge of pain every time the vampiress tugged at one of those small, dull-edged teeth. Oh, by Lord Bal, this was going to be the most wonderful game they had played in years - ever since the day three of her sisters came across a human baby and spent hours and hours tearing its tiny body apart!  
  
Still, the freezing spell did retain part of its power over the mortal - for all of the meal's attempts to push the fledgling away, to stop the merciless hand that was hovering over its face, resulted in a small, barely noticeable twitch of the creature's fingers. Smirking smugly to herself, the vampiress clasped the tongs round one of the mortal's molars and prepared to pull - but never got a chance to tear it out.   
  
For just at that moment, a burst of blinding, purplish light flooded the room, and a dazzlingly bright lightning bolt pierced the fledgling's back, burning a tiny hole in her armour. Setting down the tongs, the vampiress whirled around with an angry hiss - but before she could even realize where the shock blast had come from, she was knocked off her feet by some sort of wild grey blur, which overwhelmed her and pinned her to the floor with a swift, unstoppable strike of a steel blade.  
  
A few seconds later, when the vampiress stopped struggling, the blur gradually gained a definite outline. Another mortal, of the Dunmeri race, clad in scanty hide armour and bearing the fiercest scowl imaginable.  
  
'All right, you n'wahs, who's next?' the creature growled, tearing its sword out of the vampiress' chest.  
  
The master curled his lips; he really did hate it when his brood was thinned. It was hard work, finding the right mortals (human females, preferably; he had a particular weakness for those), luring them into trusting him, and finally, turning them. Very hard work - and he would not abide seeing the results of that work lying sprawled on the floor and crumbling away into ash, starting at the horrid, dark, gaping wound in the middle of the chest.   
  
His slanting, bat-like nostrils widening in fury, he spat out a curt order to the rest of the clan; the fledglings swarmed round the Dunmer, their clawing fingers alight with the red aura of the vampiric drain spell. And that was when the lightning caster appeared on the scene again. A young female Nord.  
  
The creature was not much to look at; small, skinny, pale-faced, pale-haired, pale-eyed, constantly getting entangled in the ridiculous bundle of garments that it was wearing - and constantly flinching and whining in terror, apparently having beheld the proud children of the night in their full glory for the very first time. But still, somehow, it managed to cleave through the vampiresses' ranks with its blade and its magic - every now and again, it would glance at the feast table, and the sight of the meal seemed to help it gain sufficient strength to slash through undead flesh with steel and sting at it with lightning. Most perplexing. Maybe the thing wanted the morsel for itself? Well, it would not have it!  
  
The master vampire zoomed across the room to join the battle - but found his way blocked by a third mortal. Also a Nord, with the most grotesquely oversized arm muscles and a ruffled beard. Excited about their freshly captured meal, the fledglings must have forgotten to shut the secret door behind them, and now intruders were pouring in through it like cockroaches!  
  
Snarling in anger, the Altmer summoned a billowing, ghostly bluish blade - just in time to block the savage swing of the mortal's axe. As their weapons ground together, the vampire clasped and unclasped the fingers of his free hand, readying a magical ice shard - a long glowing horn would look perfectly dandy in between those two beady, bloodshot blue eyes... But before he could cast his spell, the mortal creature lifted its second weapon. That accursed frying pan again.  
  
As the stone-hard, flat surface hit him squarely on the top of the head, he tumbled down to his knees; the room spun on the spot, and his eyeballs throbbed with the wild mix of blurred shapes and colours that clashed all around him. The Dunmer and the little female showering his fledglings with blow after blow after blow; grey armour being ripped apart by the flashing blades; white, long-fingered hands clawing at the deep, gash-like wounds; fierce yellow eyes going dark, like embers after water has been splashed on them...  
  
The big Nord towered over him, axe on the ready - aiming to cleave off his head, the barbarian. The master vampire drew a long, hissing breath and, gathering all the great, overpowering strength that came with the dark gift of undeath, grabbed at the beastly creature's armour and pulled as hard as he could, so that the mortal would kneel beside him.   
  
And as soon as the Nord slumped down to the floor, panting heavily, the master lurched forward and sank his teeth deep into the tangled mass of hair covering the creature's neck; fighting back a retch of disgust as all that bear fur got into his mouth, he finally reached the flesh - and tore into it, making the prey squirm in his firm, vice-like grasp. This was nothing like the playful nibbles he had been amusing himself with, as he tucked into his first meal - this was a real, savage bite, aimed to kill.  
  
The blood came rushing into his mouth, chasing off the dull, pulsing headache that had started eating through his head when the frying pan hit him. Bending forward, he pushed the Nord further down, pressing the bulky, thrashing body into the floorboards, glaring down at it with a triumphant leer, as the warm, fresh red drink frothed and bubbled inside his mouth and trickled down his chin.  
  
Of course, he was too consumed by his feast to hear the soft patter of footsteps as the little female creature, having felled yet another fledgling, left the Dark Elf to finish her off and raced over to the table; or the faint, musical tingle of a healing spell that the mortal used to bring back the strength to the limp, half-frozen body of the vampires' meal, and to wipe off all traces of the swollen, bright-pink markings on its neck and wrists; or the meal's shuddering gasp as it jolted into a sitting pose and its eyes fell on the crushed, drained Nord brute; or the sharp scraping sound that the tongs made against the table's wood when the revived morsel grabbed them... He did not hear anything, not until it was too late. Not until the mortal, chest heaving, eyes rounding wildly, leapt on him from behind and brought the tongs down, with a force that shattered his skull like the jagged metal wheel of a lumber mill shatters the hardened, age-old pine wood, sending a shower of tiny, sharp, raw splinters spurting in all directions...  
  
  
***  
  
  
If the five errant lumberjacks had beheld their feisty employer now, they would have thanked the Divines for lighting up their hearts with a wish to run off to the army. No gruelling training, no rigid discipline, no dangerous scouting missions would have compared to the sight of Gilfre - out of breath, still clasping the massive, clunky tongs; with her eyes bulging out of their sockets, her hair standing on end, and her dress torn and splattered with gods along know what was stuffed inside that foul monster's body. And screeching - screeching her head off, spittle flying out of her mouth and raining down upon the poor little Sveta, who was crouching next to Torvar and hovering her hands over his mangy, blood-soaked beard.  
  
'HEAL HIM HARDER, GIRL!' she bellowed, her voice rising in pitch till it turned into a shrill, warped, almost inhuman sound. 'HEAL HIM HARDER! MAKE HIM OKAY!'  
  
'I am trying,' Sveta mouthed, a tiny, bulging, gently blue vein tracing its way across the upper left side of her forehead as she lit up her spell with renewed force.  
  
'YOU AREN'T TRYING HARD ENOUGH, YOU LAZY LITTLE TWAT!' Gilfre shrieked in reply, reaching forward and getting her crooked, bloodied fingers into the girl's hair.  
  
His eyes glinting like two enchanted flaming daggers, Athis grabbed Gilfre by the arm - so tightly that his fingers left dark bruised markings on her skin - and pulled her away from his precious little Scrib.  
  
'Muthsera,' he said hoarsely, 'You have just killed a vampire with your bare hands. You need to cool off, before you hurt anyone. Or I hurt you'.  
  
The sight of the classical Dunmeri scowl made Gilfre sober up a little.  
  
'But - ' she wheezed, her enraged howl fading away into a childish sob. 'But... Why isn't he moving? Why isn't he breathing?'  
  
'He _is_ breathing,' Sveta cut in, pressing her fingers against Torvar's thick, hairy wrist. 'But... But that's all he has the strength for right now... He has lost a lot of blood, much more than Gilfre - not that I'm trying to say that Gilfre was better off or anything,' she added hurriedly, her ears flaring a rich shade of magenta. 'My magic can only do so much, and - ' she swallowed loudly and fell silent.  
  
'And what?' Gilfre asked, her voice failing her; she made a step towards Sveta and Torvar once again, but Athis laid his hand heavily on her shoulder to stop her.  
  
'And...' Sveta chewed nervously at the scar on the inner side of her lip. 'And it kinda... sorta... looks like he got infected with Sangunnari... Sanguineyrie... You know, the vampiric disease... That's what they call it in f-fancy b-books... I think...'  
  
For a few moments, the two human women and the Dunmer did not utter a single word, a single sound - in dense, almost tangible, oppressive silence, broken only by the faltering echo of their heartbeat, they stared down at Torvar; at his mask-like face, white as fresh snow upon the mountain slopes; at his half-parted, purplish lips; at the heavy, leaden-grey folds of his closed eyelids; at his sunken, barely moving chest, crisscrossed by traces of caked blood...  
  
'W-we have to get him to a proper healer - s-somehow...' Sveta stammered at length. 'And if he d-dies on the way, he'll wake up a vampire...'


	10. Chapter 10

Ah, finally. There it is. A cave entrance underneath an overhanging rocky ledge, adorned with long, silvery icicles that resemble a row of teeth... Which makes the cave itself a mouth, wide-open, ravenous, leading into a deep, seemingly bottomless throat, which is ready to suck in an unwary traveller, making him vanish without a trace in inky-blue darkness...  
  
This mental image makes his own throat contract painfully - or maybe it's the blasted cold getting to him. Either way, he has to stay focused. It won't do, staggering about with his mind wandering.  
  
He tosses his head from side to side, eyebrows knitted, to shake off the last traces of the daze that had wrapped itself, wool-like, round his mind, after what felt like several centuries of trudging through the dreary grey-and-white wilderness, putting one foot in front of the other with a monotony that lulled all his senses to sleep.  
  
B'vek, if he hadn't blinked right now, he would have kept walking along an endless straight line, staring ahead and not really seeing anything save for the blurred outlines of rocks and trees, and large, downy snowflakes circling before his eyes in a slow, almost nauseating dance... And he would have missed his destination! He could really use more practice with these long treks across Skyrim; getting from point A to point B while on a quest is nothing like wandering aimlessly through the ashen wilds of his home. He has a purpose now - a task to fulfill in the name of the Companions. Not as heroic as he would have preferred - but still a task. His very first venture out into the open without Skjor shepherding him.  
  
This last thought makes the young Dunmer's face light up with a proud grin - a little indulgence that he allows himself, knowing that he is in the wilds and there is nobody to watch and mock him... save, perhaps, for an occasional snow fox. Squaring his shoulders decisively and taking a huge encouraging gulp of frosty air, he races the final few feet uphill, towards the dark, gaping cave - and takes a bold dive down the hungry blue-black throat.  
  
  
  
It takes his eyes a few moments to adjust to the murk inside the cavern - but finally, his pupils dilating and his eyeballs throbbing with the effort, he manages to discern a narrow passage, with walls coated in a thick, bulgy ice crust; winding its way from the entrance, it goes ever downwards, till it dissolves underneath a heavy, velvety pall of darkness, which the shimmering, bluish rays of sunlight cannot penetrate. Quite a place this fugitive has chosen as a hideout...  
  
He gropes instinctively round his belt, till his fingers find the reassuringly solid hilt of his sword; closing his grip round the icy metal and smiling faintly as he feels it grow warmer at the touch of his flesh, he clears his throat and calls out, addressing the black emptiness ahead,  
  
'Torvar?'   
  
He pauses for a moment, fumbling within the recesses of his mind for the fellow's full name. There was another word there, he is sure of it... If only it was not so hard to dig it out from underneath layers and layers of other memories... After all, he has to sound as official as possible - to show this vagabond that he means business... But, blast it, these humans always have such confusing forms of address!  
  
Finally, he manages to capture the elusive word - and blurts out, with renewed force,  
  
'Torvar Aegir.. Aegirsson! I know you are in here! This is your last chance to repay your debts!'  
  
His voice, loud and hoarse, scrapes against the icy silence that fills the cavern - like a Khajiit scrapes his claws against a piece of wood to sharpen them. The arching walls resonate with a throbbing, ringing echo - but that is the only answer he receives; as soon as the ghostly sound dies down, the silence returns, just as dense as it was before he lashed at it with his cry.   
  
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, beginning to feel uncomfortable. This is most disappointing - and embarrassing... He was hoping that this, er, Torvar would come out, all wild and hairy, yelling something along the lines of, 'You will never take me alive!', and that they would have an epic stand-off against the backdrop of the icy stalactites... But this stupid cave does not even seem inhabited - not at first glance, at least. Does this mean he made that tedious, exhausting journey for nothing?   
  
'Damn it, Skjor,' he grumbles through his teeth. 'If you wanted me to prove my mettle, you could have sent me to clear out a wolf den... Not to hunt down some runaway gambler who may not even be here!'  
  
With a weary sigh of resignation, he decides to call for the fugitive one last time, poke around the cave a little - and then turn back and make a beeline for the nearest inn, where he can warm his bones and have a good, hearty helping of hot meat broth, muttering after every spoon about what a waste it all has been.  
  
'You cannot hide forever, Torvar Aegirsson! Why not come out now, save us all the trouble?'  
  
Again, silence.  
  
He rolls up his eyes and shuffles reluctantly past the cave's threshold, glancing around for any traces of this Torvar character. And then, he freezes - with his neck craned so that his long, unruly copper hair hangs down on both sides of his face like a curtain; staring down at the rimy soil at his feet. His heart gives a small jolt, and then, sends what feels like a small swarm of butterflies fluttering in circles within his chest. Sweet Azura - this mission will turn out to be heroic, after all!  
  
Twisting across the floor all the way down the icy passage, there is a long, fine thread of smeared blood splatters - a tell-tale sign of danger lurking somewhere ahead... And danger is just the thing he needs to prove to Skjor that, despite his elven blood, he really is proper Companion material and not just some errand boy, only good for scaring random Nords into settling their debts.  
  
Giggling excitedly (once again, a luxury reserved only for the times when he is alone), he trots forward, his eyes cast down, his gaze chained to the guiding red thread - till the ground gradually dissolves in a tidal wave of blue murk, which forces him to look up, to gain at least some sort of idea where he has wandered off to.  
  
It appears that the trail of blood has led him into some sort of spacious chamber, almost completely plunged into blackness. The only light, uneven and pale-blue like the flicker of a mage's spell, is coming from about half a dozen small, squat pillars (or rather, lopsided pyramids of a sort) at the chamber's very end.  
  
Slowly, pausing after every step, passing his arms through the air to make sure he does not bump into anything in the gloom, he makes his way closer to the pillars, till he is finally able to reach forward and touch one of them.   
  
Suddenly, he staggers back, his fingers twitching and a vein jerking slightly through the skin of his neck. These 'pillars' are not pillars at all - they are clusters of large, gnarled spheres which seem glow from the inside; every few seconds, this glow grows dimmer and then flares up again, as if each sphere has a beating heart locked within it.  
  
'By the blood of my ancestors...' he whispers chokingly. 'What are these things?'  
  
'Mighty good question, that! At first, I thought they were part of some insane hangover... But I haven't had a proper drink in ages, so they must be real...'  
  
The sound of a faltering, slightly nasally voice, somewhere in the darkness as his side, makes the Dunmer whirl into the air like a startled tern. Brandishing his sword wildly in front of him, he whips around on one spot, tiny stones rolling from underneath his heels with a faint rustle - as though fleeing from him.  
  
Presently, the tip of his blade flicks against something soft and fleshy, making a few tiny dark droplets swell up on this something's surface.  
  
'Ouch,' the same voice grunts. 'So... You are real too, huh?'  
  
Frowning in bewilderment, the Dunmer squats down and, squinting his eyes in poor light, attempts to make out who has spoken to him.  
  
As it turns out, he has grazed the bare forearm of a young Nord lad, perhaps a little older than those noisy little twins that train together with him under Skjor's guidance. He is sitting slouched down on the cavern's floor, like a stuffed toy that has been tossed aside by a fickle child. A stuffed toy bear, to be more precise - there is something about the youngster that brings to mind this large, brown-coated forest animal...   
  
Perhaps it is the breadth of his shoulders and the thickness of his arms (the latter are noticeably hairy, too); or his ruffled mane of hair, with twigs and bits of moss and specks of filth stuck in its springy mass (most of it grows on his head; his beard is still quite modest, though the Dunmer imagines that as the Nord ages, which will happen so frightfully fast, his whole chest will be concealed beneath a tangled, bushy armour plate)... Or perhaps it is the tunic that he is wearing, sewn out of the pelt of some animal; it has been splattered in places by some sickly liquid, which has glued a few tufts of fur together, making them stick out, as though bristling in fear.  
  
The Dunmer chews thoughtfully at his lower lip, recollecting the description of the fugitive he was sent to find. This fellow's appearance matches what he was told; granted, he cannot determine his eye or hair colour in this wretched murk - but there can hardly be that many young Nords hiding in this cave, can there?  
  
'Torvar Aegirsson, I presume?' he asks, the vision of the glorious duel once again stirring at the back of his mind. If this young bear decides to drive him out of his murky den with brute force - why, he is ready! More than ready. He has already drawn his blood - and he will shove his blade into the Nord's gut and tear it out again before he will be able to make but one swing with those big paws of his...  
  
Contrary to his expectations, however, Torvar neither thumps himself in the chest nor lets out a roaring battle cry; instead, he merely stiffens and snickers nervously.  
  
'So, you one of them, huh? The debt collectors? Gods, you guys really do dig up people from wherever they hide, dontcha?'  
  
The Dunmer curls his lips in a sour scowl; he can almost hear the soft 'pop!' as his mental image dissolves into thin air. And... And really, the nerve of that human! Does he, an aspiring warrior and adventurer, look anything like those boring Imperial officials?  
  
'I am no debt collector,' he replies dryly. 'I am with the Companions. I have been sent to give you a warning'.  
  
Torvar whistles.  
  
'Oopsie... I'm in trouble, aren't I? Look...' he slants his eyes at the Dunmer's sword and swallows a lump in his throat that must have been at least as large as his fist. 'Look - I am more than willing to talk business... Just - just not here, okay? This place gives me the creeps'.  
  
'Oh, I see... And that is why you sought shelter here. Perfect logic,' the Dunmer says acidly, getting to his feet and watching the Nord do the same.  
  
He has not been in too much of a hurry to sheathe his blade, figuring that the fellow might decide to make a run for it, and the song-worthy clash between the two of them might still happen... But now it seems that his hopes were all in vain.   
  
The Nord's movements are slow and fumbling, as if he had been hit on the head with something heavy; his legs, wobbly as Namira's rot stalks, can barely support him, and he his forced to grab at the Dunmer's shoulder as he straightens himself up. And while he draws himself to his full height, the young Companion catches a glimpse of an ugly, mangled gash in his neck, oozing glistening pus. This must be the wound that left behind that blood trail he followed - though he cannot fathom what kind of weapon (or... or pair of jaws) could have made it.  
  
The sight of this hideous mark warping the Nord's flesh makes the Dunmer's innards contract - so painfully that it almost brings tears to his eyes. Quite unexpectedly, he finds himself pitying his wounded quest target, all of his pugnacious daydreams forgotten. As an invisible, tiny and very cold hand claws at his heart with its clammy fingers, he wraps his arm round the Nord's shoulders, and patiently supports him as he struggles to drag his heavy, unwieldy body back towards the mouth of the passage.  
  
In the meanwhile, Torvar keeps talking, sounding more and more feverish and incoherent with every (slightly slurred) word he utters,  
  
'It seemed like a good idea at the time... Lay low in the wilds, where they can't find me... But then, I got lonely, and sick of scavenging for food like a blighted squirrel - and of always being sober... Do you have any idea how disgusting thawed snow tastes? Gods, I would give a eye and a tooth for a mug of ale... And then, I was sitting around, brooding and all, when this thing leapt at me from behind and bit me... Shor's bones, it hurt like mad...'  
  
'Thing? What thing?' the Dunmer cuts him short, pricking up his pointed ears.   
  
This begins to sound intriguing; it the Nord is not delirious, that is.  
  
'Is there some... creature slinking about in this cave? And it attacked you - gave you this wound? How exactly did it happen? What did it look like?'  
  
Torvar makes a vague gesture.  
  
'I dunno... It was big... And it made this weird clicking noise... I suppose it dragged me all the way out here, though I don't remember how it happened. Musta been passed out. I had just come to when you showed up... No idea - '  
  
He does not get to finish, interrupted by a dry crackle behind his back - as though someone is crumbling a sheet of paper, again and again and again. Barely audible at first, the sound steadily grows louder and louder, till both the Nord and the Dunmer have to clutch their heads - and just when the crackle seems to fill their entire bodies, tearing away at their bones and splitting their skulls in two... it is joined by another sound. An odd clicking noise that makes a sudden chill patter up the two men's spines with its tiny, ant-like legs.  
  
Cautiously, sword on the ready, the Companion turns back, facing the chamber once again - and swears hoarsely.  
  
The glowing blue spheres are popping open, one by one, like ripened fruit; evidently, the crackle is made by their shells falling apart... And the clicking - the clicking comes from the heart of the tar-like stream that pours out of the cracked spheres, oozing down the pillar-like clusters and trickling slowly towards the two men's feet.   
  
Scattered on the ground like pottery shards, the remnants of the spheres are still glowing, though now their light is even, without that eerie, heart-like flicker - and it has become even harder to see by.   
  
Narrowing his eyes, his temples and the back of his head throbbing from staring into darkness, the Dunmer looks closer at the torrent lapping at his feet... and soon realizes that it is made out of black insects - each about the size of a newborn hound pup; with long, wriggling bodies protected by sliding plates of chitin, and pincers dripping with the same greenish slime that is smeared over Torvar's tunic. One after another, they push themselves out of the spheres and then crawl across the chamber floor, their thin, bristling legs clicking against the icy ground. There must be over sixty of them, as each of the 'pillars' was made out of roughly ten spheres, and they spread over the stone like a living, heaving carpet... A very hungry carpet, too - for they keep turning their heads and snapping their curved pincers, as though probing the air for a whiff of lunch.  
  
The sight is far from pleasant, of course; but the Dunmer is not too unsettled - it is going to take a lot more than a squirming heap of bugs to frighten someone who has grown up in Morrowind. In fact, the sight before his eyes seems to chase away that bothersome chill. Now that he knows what he is up against, he can finally stop stumbling in the dark and start being heroic.  
  
Judging by the stories Skjor told him, these critters have to be chaurus hatchlings - and these underground-dwelling, poison-spitting bugs are considered a threat to the surface world. And there is nothing he likes better than eliminating threats.  
  
Flexing his (so far so very few, to his utmost dismay) muscles, the Dunmer steps boldly into the black stream. The hatchlings immediately cover his legs in a bristling, wriggling layer, leaving deep nicks and cuts in his skin. But before they can overwhelm him, he shakes them off, without as much as flinching - and as the try to crawl up again, he slashes at them with his sword, sending a shower of gooey, sharp-smelling liquid spurting in all directions.  
  
The green, sticky droplets barely land on the ice crust on the ground when the sliced-up bugs are replaced by a new wave of their brethren; and after that wave is dealt with, it is followed by another still. Dealing with the critters soon turns into a rhythmic war dance, which the Dunmer repeats again and again, his face flushed, his blood racing with glorious battle fury.   
  
As the bugs persistently make their way up his legs and torso, he tears them off, and, after they thunk faintly down to the floor, grinds his soles into their backs, reducing their bodies to small green puddles with a tremendous crunching noise.  
  
The Nord is no help. Still swaying - and scratching at his wound with an almost feral force - he backtracks further and further along the passage, his eyes turning into two white bulging orbs with pinpoint pupils in the middle, sweat streaming down his face and moistening the wispy hairs over his upper lip; overpowered by uncontrollable, crippling disgust.  
  
Some of the hatchlings follow him, having evaded the deadly swings of the Dunmer's sword; Torvar gapes glassily at their twitching legs and clicking pincers, his lips forming a shape that vaguely resembles the 8 digit, lying on its side... Until eventually, one of the little bugs leaps forward, and, sinking its hungry jaws into his pantleg, starts chewing through the coarse cloth, in an attempt to reach the warm, succulent flesh.   
  
This makes the lad squeal like a piglet and throw his arms up into the air; apparently a little taken aback, the critter stops its chewing for a moment, and then crawls a few inches upwards, probing Torvar's belly with its legs. The hapless Nord flies into a frenzy; with an incoherent yelp, he closes his fingers round the slippery chitin plates and hurls the bug against the wall. This abrupt, panic-driven movement makes him lose balance; his feet skidding on the rimy floor, he plops down - and remains lying on his side, his knees pressed close together, his face twisted into an almost comical mask, with sagging mouth corners and piteously raised eyebrows.   
  
The last few bugs that have not yet been squashed by the Dunmer seem to take an eager interest in the hapless lad. Scaling his bulky body like a mountain, they burrow ravenously into the slopes of his arms, squirting green venom into the wounds they make, playing with slivers of skin and flesh as though trying to weave them into some kind of morbid, bleeding tapestry.  
  
Despite the pain that he must be going through, the Nord remains quite still, and only his lower lip quivers a little, like that of a child that is about to cry. But it is not the hatchlings' venom that has petrified him; fortunately, their bite is not nearly as deadly as an adult chaurus'. It is the terror that keeps Torvar chained, unable to move a muscle - blank, icy terror that grips at his heart, eating away at it like acid... This terror has made its home in the dark, unseeing sockets of a skull that is resting on the floor precisely on Torvar's eye level.  
  
And there is more than just the skull; it is attached to a skeleton, curled up on the floor inches away from the poor Nord. The lad has not spotted it until right now, until after he fell to the floor... But the moment his eyes met the skeleton's empty gaze, he found himself unable to look away.  
  
The poor wretch, whoever he (or she; Torvar has no idea how to determine the gender of a pile of bones) could have been, is still covered by a few snatches of cloth and leather; and he thinks he can discern a few splashes of red here and there... the last bits of flesh still clinging to the barren bones. The rest must have been nibbled off - by... Torvar gulps faintly... by the same tiny, laborious jaws that are pinching at him now. So that thing that bit him in the cavern's front chamber - it... it must have been the momma bug. She paralyzed him with that blasted slime, and then, while he was out, served him to her babies as their very first breakfast after they hatch... Just as she did with that other fellow on the floor, the poor sod...  
  
Under the accompaniment of the bugs' relentless munching, his whole life passes before his eyes - and, swept off by a torrent of memories, he almost forgets about the burning agony that is slowly eating through his flesh.  
  
He has been nothing but a lazy layabout. The only son and the apple of his parents' eye (ugh, that sounds morbid), he had never bothered to learn a trade, being too spoiled and too certain that, no matter what, he would always be fed and cooed over and tucked into bed. And even after his ma and da passed, claimed by sickness one long, cold winter, he continued skipping about through life, squandering his modest inheritance like there was no tomorrow... Till one day, a swarm of moths became the only thing that came out of his coin purse, and instead of delectable, peach-like tavern wenches, he found himself facing debt collectors, and, half of the merchants and innkeepers in Skyrim breathing down his neck, had to flee into the wilds... Where he has finally met his destiny - to be eaten by bugs.  
  
So this is how he is supposed to end his meaningless existence? Gnawed away, inch by inch, till nothing remains but a few brittle bones and a glistening, orb-like skull, which this skinny, red-haired Dunmer fellow will no doubt kick in disdain, muttering in that hoary voice of his that this was a proper end for a worthless gambler and lollygagger.  
  
No.   
  
Torvar blinks off the bleary film dimming his eyes, as something powerful, something enormous begins to stir within him like a rumble of distant thunder. He is not worthless. He is not a waste of space. There is more, much more to him than merely a harebrained, ever-drunken wastrel. He - he has dreams. Ambitions. He has always wanted to see the world. To have adventures. To make real friends - not just the kind that only loves you while you are having drinks together. And, dammit, he will not allow a bunch of stupid crawling critters to get the better of him!  
  
In a flash, a helpless little bear cub, an abandoned stuffed toy, transforms into a full-grown bear - the mighty, majestic king of the forest that will allow nothing to stand in the way of his wrath. Torvar straightens up, ignoring the painful prickling of his raw, pockmarked skin and the dull pulsing in his neck, and, ripping the bugs off his arms one by one, crushes them with his bare hands, successfully fighting back the urge to retch as the black chitin cracks in his grasp and lumpy green liquid comes oozing down his fingers.  
  
'By... Ysmir...' he pants, tossing the squeezed-out insect husks aside. 'I... Will... Not... Be... Eaten... By... Bugs!'  
  
The Dunmer looks on, arms folded on his chest, his lips parting in a mocking smirk.  
  
'Impressive display,' he says softly as Torvar gets rid of the very last bug and wipes the sweat off his forehead. 'I was beginning to think you were a... what do you people call it?'  
  
'Milk-drinker?' Torvar suggests absently, too busing groping his own skin and looking himself over. Thankfully, before his interruption, the critters were just getting started; they have only managed to chew off bits of the upper layer of his flesh - in places, he does look like a swollen, fleshy sponge, but he is still far, far better off than the hapless skeleton. And they didn't even get to his handsome face, thank the gods!  
  
'Ah, yes, milk-drinker...' the Dunmer nods, his smirk slowly moulding into a sneer (though the difference is very subtle... You can never tell with those elves). 'I can't stand milk-drinkers'.  
  
Torvar coughs into his fist.  
  
'So, er - are you going to turn me in now?'  
  
'I am going to get you to a healer,' the elf responds curtly; and Torvar thinks he can see something very much like... concern flicker in the ruby depths of his eyes. 'You are a mess. Then, we'll see. Here...'  
  
He bends down towards the skeleton and, picking up a loose bone and weighing it in his hand, passes it over to Torvar.   
  
'Something to defend yourself with. In case more bugs show up'.  
  
'A bone?' the young Nord asks blankly, stumbling in the Dunmer's wake as both of them finally leave the egg chamber behind and head back towards the entrance.  
  
The elf jerks his shoulder.  
  
'Why not? Bones are remarkably resilient, just so you know. My kin use it to make armour'.  
  
'Sounds gross,' Torvar mutters with a shudder.  
  
The Companion gives him a sly, mischievous look - feeling the ever-furrowed skin between his eyebrows smoothen... a wonderful, refreshing sensation, as though he has splashed cold water into his face.   
  
Whenever he is in the presence of others, his eyebrows are almost always locked together in a frown, making his Shield Siblings call him 'the grumpy elf'. But this Nord lad, this fugitive - he is different, somehow. Around him, he feels more at ease than around most other humans.  
  
'You have no idea,' he says, with (by Azura! Could it really be?) the faintest trace of a chuckle. 'There is a whole legend about how bonemould was invented, and it has enough gross details to make you lose sleep for nights on end'.  
  
Torvar beams at him.  
  
'Well,' he declares brightly, 'This can hardly be any worse than seeing a bloke that's been eaten by...'  
  
His voice abruptly trails off to a faint, rustling whisper, and the last word, 'bugs', turns out hardly louder than a simple breath of air. And when the Dunmer follows the direction of his gaze, it becomes more than clear why.  
  
They had barely walked out of the dark passage into the front section of the cavern when they found their way barred - by yet another insect. Only this time, it is enormous, almost as tall as the elf; with huge pale eyes and four elongated, dragonfly wings that allow it to hover above ground, kneading the air with its front legs and parting its pincers in what must be the bug version of a malicious leer.  
  
So this is what momma bug looks like, Torvar thinks to himself, his stomach curling up in a small ball.   
  
Before either of the men can make a move, the mother chaurus whizzes forward, sending a long, arched poison spit flying through the air. Both the elf and the human manage to dodge the slimy projectile - but now it seems that it’s the Dunmer's turn to trip over his own feet. As he slips on the ice and falls awkwardly to his knees, the bug sweeps upon him, its jaws clicking like a pair of monstrous scissors.  
  
The critter aims for the Dunmer's face, which he hurries to shield with his sword arm; but as the venom-coated pincers rip through his flesh and he cries out in pain, his fingers, suddenly numb, let go of the blade's hilt, and it comes clattering down to the floor, while the chitin bulk presses him into the hard ice crust, countless legs tearing at his limbs...  
  
Torvar looks on at the scene with his jaw dangling limply off whatever hinges attach it to the rest of the head - but not for long. His newly-found bear-like rage commands him in spring into action; swept off in its wake, he lifts the bone in his hand high into the air - and then brings it down with the crushing force of a storm that ravages through the crown of a mighty tree, cleaving off whole branches. The makeshift weapon plunges deep jnto the insect's belly; writhing in agony, the creature leaves its prey alone and flutters drunkenly to the side, knocking against the ice-crusted walls.   
  
Encouraged by the sight of his first ever successful battle blow, Torvar fumbles on the ground for the Dunmer's sword. He acts on the spur of the moment, his head swimming as though he had just downed a generous swig of mead - he has no idea how to properly hold a weapon... And yet, his fingers close themselves round the hilt - acting completely of their own accord - and his arm pulls the weapon upward in a broad, confident swing - which ends in a swift and clean blow that chops off the chaurus' head.  
  
For a few seconds, Torvar watches it roll across the floor, antennae still wriggling - and then, turns to help the Dunmer to his feet.  
  
'Hey, now it looks like we both need a healer,' he says jokingly, allowing himself wipe off the blood streaming out of a cut in the elf's forearm.  
  
'So we do, friend,' the Dunmer nods, wincing slightly. 'So we do'.  
  
It is only after they limp out into the blinding sunlight, supporting one another, that he realizes which word he used to address the Nord. It came out so easily, so naturally - it is most... most perplexing.  
  
The elf remains silent most of the way back to civilization, mulling over his puzzling slip of the tongue - and then, when they stop for a breath of fresh air and spot the first soft golden lights, winking playfully at them from beyond the gentle slope of a snowy hill, he blurts out suddenly,   
  
'Say... You showed some decent battle skills back there - you could join the Companions. The pay will solve your debt problem, and...' he makes a sharp, slightly squeak-like intake of breath, and finishes, stunning himself with his own words, 'And you might make some friends, too'.  
  
Really? What has gotten into him? He is acting like a small boy that comes up to an older child, looks up into his face with large, sparkling eyes, and asks him falteringly, 'Will... Will you be my friend?'  
  
He has told himself, time and time again, not to be jealous of those humans and their kinship!.. Of the way Skjor throws back his head and laughs, patting Kodlak on the shoulder, as they recount the adventures they had together in the days of old; or the way the little twins spend every day in an endless cycle of fighting and making up; or the way old Vignar dotes, mother hen-like, over that youngster he picked up in the streets...   
  
All of these little joys - shaking your brother's hand as greeting; going to battle with him side by side and then spinning a yarn about your shared victory over a mug of ale; forgiving him for any wrong he has done you - they are not intended for him. The Nords may have accepted him into their tong, but he still remains an outsider. And he does not care. By the Three, he does not! He has always been a lone nix. A family of one. And he is perfectly content staying that way! He - he must be perfectly content!  
  
Why is he so drawn to this little bear anyway? He is a careless, irresponsible lollygagger, on the run from his creditors... His complete opposite. So what if seeing the chaurus bite mark suddenly made him feel protective of the lad? So what if this human save his life? So what if his clumsiness and slightly childish manner of speaking make him smile inwardly, as though watching the antics of a younger sibling he never had?.. If the lad does join the Companions, he will probably want nothing to do with a gloomy, withdrawn elf anyway; he will prefer... how do they put it... to hang out with his peers, his kinsmen - Farkas and Vilkas...  
  
Torvar's face lights up at the Dunmer's words.  
  
'Oh gods...' he murmurs dreamily. 'I think this is just the thing for me... I'm not much use at labour or learning, but... But hey, I can throw a punch with the best of 'em! Gods, I will finally have something else to do apart from getting wasted and running away from debt collectors! And you are so right - the Companions are the most epic friends a Nord could have, aren't they?'  
  
'I am certain you will feel right at home,' the elf replies, a little sourly, his enthusiasm rapidly winding down.  
  
Suddenly, Torvar stops in his tracks and sweeps the Dunmer off the ground in a tight hug that makes all the scratches left over from chaurus-fighting scream in protest.  
  
'This is the best idea ever!' he sings, smothering the poor, wriggling elf in the smell of sweat, blood, and dried-up bug guts. 'Thank you... Wait, I didn't catch your name?'  
  
'Athis...' the Dunmer chokes, eeling out of the Nord's grasp. 'My name is Athis'.  
  
  
***  
  
  
'Funny how history repeats itself...' Athis whispered, barely parting his lips, as he gazed into Torvar's pallid, frozen face. 'A cavern with bunch of tiny bugs, and a huge mother bug... You and me, fighting side by side... You were in pretty bad shape back then, too - that hug you gave me made every wound you had burst open... I barely managed to drag you to a healer... But you know what?' he leaned closer to his Shield Brother, his shallow breath scorching his skin... but unable to melt the ice that held Torvar prisoner. 'You got better! Do you hear me? You got better! I bet you don't even have any scars left to remind you of that little adventure... And - ' he slid his eyelids shut, a violent spasm gripping his throat. 'And now you must get better too! Because if you don't... If you don't, I swear I'll kill you!'  
  
'Quit hissing and let's get a move on!' Gilfre barked, looming over the Dunmer like a dark, very impatient thundercloud. 'Rest time is over!'  
  
They had fashioned a makeshift stretcher, out of a few wood planks and the dark-grey, blood-splattered cloaks they had pulled off the vampires' bodies, and had laid Torvar down onto it, as carefully as they could, covering him with several more vampire cloaks, because the big Nord's hands and face were cold like slabs of ice (and almost the same colour, too), and the only sign of life he was giving was a convulsive shiver that kept running up and down his body like a tidal wave.  
  
They carried him all together, the two women trudging heavily at Torvar's feet and the Dunmer, at his feet; their burden was heavy, so they had to stop and catch their breath every now and then - especially because of Sveta. The little Nord stoically endured the fire-like ache that melted the bones in her arms like sugar, and the burning itch in the skin of her palms, raw and bulging because of what felt like a thousand splinters lodging themselves into her flesh - but sooner or later, there always came a point when she could not bear it any longer and began relaxing her grip, making the stretcher keel over to the side, and almost causing poor Torvar to slide off to the ground. Whenever it happened, Athis and Gilfre would always hurry to set their burden down, giving Sveta some time to give her silently moaning arms a soothing rub and to blow at her hands.  
  
It was one of those little breaks that they were taking now. Sveta had sunk to the ground, nestling herself among the gnarled roots of a roadside tree, and was swaying from side to side, whimpering with pain and exhaustion; Gilfre was pacing restlessly up and down the path; and Athis had taken a moment to gave into his friend's face... Gods, he feared he would have to clutch his chest to lock in all the blood that was lapping inside it, seeping from his throbbing, aching heart. He had not realized how much it would hurt, seeing this new, silent, motionless Torvar, so unlike the one he was used to - that loveable, scatter-brained, mead-loving lollygagger he had once been told to chase down on behalf of his angry creditors. Why - why did fate always put him in situations when he risked losing either of the two people that mattered so much to him? His precious Scrib and his little brother bear...  
  
'Come on, get up!' the lumberjack urged him. 'We are gonna lose him if we linger!'  
  
Athis scrambled up, brushing dry pine needles off his knees, and gave Sveta a questioning look.  
  
'Are you ready to keep going?' he asked, his voice a gentle, husky purr.  
  
Flushing from the tip of her nose to her hair line, the little Nord nodded vigorously and parted her lips to say something - but Gilfre gave her no chance.  
  
'Why are you always asking her?!' she shrieked, slashing her arms emphatically through the air. 'This isn't about her! This is about Torvar! You are coddling her too much! If it weren't for this little weakling, we wouldn't even be making these damn stops! You and I, we can make it to Whiterun's Kynareth Temple without stumbling and whining - but this girl slows us down!'  
  
A small vein twitched in the Dark Elf's temple; his face rapidly draining of colour, he drew closer to Gilfre, like an ash storm sweeping across a volcanic plain.  
  
'I am not coddling anyone!' he spat, his nostrils flaring. 'Torvar is my best friend; I want to see him healed as much as you do - more so, perhaps, as you've only known him for a couple of days... But I will not allow anyone - anyone! - to insult my Sveta!'  
  
The raging Dunmer and the indignant Imperial were standing so close to one another that their noses almost touched; and Sveta could almost swear she saw flashes of lightning, coursing between their bulging, furious eyes. With a strangled gasp, she whirled to her feet and slid up to Athis from behind, caressing his arm tenderly with her fingers.  
  
'Athis, don't...' she pleaded shakily. 'She is right: I do slow you down. You would move much faster if you went on ahead. I will catch up with you later'.  
  
Athis' eyes flashed. In his heart of hearts, he felt compelled to agree with Gilfre. Sveta was not of much help when carrying the stretcher - and perhaps allowing her to rest really was taking longer than they could afford. But to abandon her, all alone, so small and helpless like a yellow-downed chick that had fallen out of the nest...  
  
Great. So now he had to choose between saving his best friend and protecting his beloved? One of these days, he would have to find whoever was determining the course of his fate and have a good, long talk with him (or her?), preferably holding the conniving villain at swordpoint.  
  
'Are you certain?' he asked hoarsely, turning to face Sveta and resting his hands on her shoulders. 'We are in the wilds - it is safer to stick together'.  
  
'I'll be fine,' she reassured him gently. 'I have my sword, and my spells... And you know I am good at curling up and hiding so that bad things pass me by'.  
  
Athis drew a long, heavy sigh. He knew he was going to regret this... Probably take it out on Torvar, too, as he was only agreeing for his sake.  
  
'Fine, little Scrib,' he said. 'Just... Just don't get dead, will you?'  
  
And, realizing how awkward and inappropriate this goodbye had been, he hurried to remedy his blunder by catching Sveta's lower lip between his and running his fingers through her hair.  It was stupid, really – but he felt he had to get a good, proper taste of that soft, wet, warm mouth before he was on his way again. As though – as though he was kissing her for the last time.  
  
'I love you,' he breathed, when he finally tore away and stepped towards the stretcher.   
  
'I love you too,' she echoed faintly, raising her hand in a hesitant farewell wave.  
  
'Oh, cut it out,' Gilfre groused, getting a hold of her side of the stretcher.  
  
  
Much as Athis loathed admitting it - they really did move faster without the poor, blundering little Scrib trotting at Gilfre's side... But he could not help but keep glancing back at the tiny, gold-haired figure standing in the middle of the forest path... Watching them leave her behind.  
  
'This doesn't feel right,' he said bitterly through his teeth. 'What if something happens to her?'  
  
'I've seen the kid in action. She can stand up for herself,' Gilfre reassured him, not unkindly (her ire seemed to be simmering down). 'You are overthinking things. Let's talk about something else - like... Like how did you and Torvar meet for the first time?'


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is as far as I have gotten on this story. I have ideas as to how it might continue, as well as other adventures in store for Sveta and Athis, but I never seem to actually sit down and write it all.

Now that Athis and Gilfre were safely on their way, she could take all the time she needed for a proper rest. Giving one last farewell look to the two little silhouettes, marching on along the path with the stretcher in between them, and smiling to herself - a soft, content, smile, just barely gliding across her lips like a fleeting ray of light - Sveta retreated back to the little nest she had made for herself in the grass among the tree roots and, sitting down with her back against the warm bark, took to cleansing her throbbing palms of wood splinters.  
  
She kept smiling as the healing magic washed over her raw, red skin, gentle and cool and refreshing as clear spring water. It soothed her, just as the drowsy rustle of the leaves overhead, and the whisper of the wind playing with the dried grass tufts, and the sweet scent of mountain flowers that it carried with its touch.  
  
She was still worried about Torvar, of course - it was such a long way to the healing sanctuary in Whiterun, and the light of the newborn sun, colouring the sky pink and glaring copper, had to be steadily draining the poor Nord's strength, if accounts of vampirism were to be believed. But she had faith in her Athis; she was certain that, without her piteous little self to get in his way, and with Gilfre's help, he would brave the distance and get his friend to safety.  
  
And as for being left on her own in the wilds - why, she did believe that the sweet, darling Dunmer feared for her safety much more than she did. She had always felt intimidated by people, by being in a large crowd, being stared at, being judged, being asked questions that she did not know the answer to - rather than by wandering alone across the wild expanses of nature.   
  
She was in awe of the sight that unfolded before her eyes - the sunlight flooding the plains, pouring over rocks and coating them in a fine layer of gold; little birds waking up and hurrying to greet the new day, darting across the burning sky with their wings outlined in sharp strokes of ink; a solitary doe, wading tentatively through the milky stream of the last predawn mist, freezing with her ears pricked up and her hoof lifted into the air, and then taking off, startled by some sudden noise, and disappearing into the blue shadows... She marveled at the glorious work of Kynareth; the elated, reverent feeling, rivalled only by the dizzy happiness that overcame her when her eyes met Athis', wiped the troubled thoughts off her ind, like twisting dark charcoal lines off a slate... And the morning sunlight healed her heart, which had been contracting painfully now and again at the thought what might happen to Torvar - just as her magic had healed her flesh.  
  
Filling her lungs to bursting point with the crisp, clear air, and stretching herself with her eyes narrowed blissfully as the weary ache ebbed away from her body, Sveta sprung back to her feet and stepped onto the path, her boots making a soft splurch as the dew from the grass soaked through their threadbare soles. She walked slowly, revelling the beauty of wakening nature around her, drinking it in with every pore of her body - till suddenly, the roseate pall fell from her eyes, and she snapped back to reality, growing tense and alert at the sound of a scraping, hoarse groan coming somewhere from the side of the path.  
  
Eyes rounded in anxiety, hands clasped to her chest, Sveta dashed to and fro, looking rather like a startled, clucking little hen - searching desperately for the sound's source. Presently, she discovered that the heart-wringing groan was coming from the hard, cracked, half-parted lips of an Argonian, who was lying on a carpet of dew-moistened green moss, his long, claw-like fingers digging into a dark-crimson tear in his leather armour, his spiked tail thrashing against the ground.  
  
As she caught sight of his wound, the little Nord instinctively gripped at her own left side, feeling a sharp pang of pain rip through her flesh. She had been through enough to know what the hapless little lizard was going through. But he was not going to suffer much longer - for it was in her power to help him. And help him she would - unconditionally, without wondering who this Argonian was or where he came from or who had hurt him. Those questions did not matter; nothing did, except for that ugly, mangled gash that made the Argonian suffer so.  
  
'Oh, you poor, poor soul,' Sveta crooned, kneeling next to the bleeding, shivering scale-skin and sliding her hand gently underneath his narrow, elongated face. Her touch made the Argonian start, letting out a loud, wheezing cough and blinking slowly, his bulging yellow eyes dimming over with a half-transparent, greyish film.  
  
Sveta lifted his head slightly and gave him a reassuring smile.  
  
'It's gonna be okay,' she mouthed. 'It's gonna be okay... I will heal you...'  
  
The scale-skin grunted faintly, a small clot of blood dangling between his small, sharp teeth. One by one, Sveta straightened his stiff, cold, crooked fingers and drew his hand away from the wound, lighting up a golden orb of healing light. The threads of magic wove through the bleeding rip, sewing its jagged edges together and sealing it with a layer of new, restored scales. The Argonian blinked again; but this time, the bleary film was gone. There was a spark of consciousness lighting up in his eyes... And - and something else; something that made a cold lump block Sveta's throat, as though she had swallowed a large hailstone. Something that seemed frighteningly like... malice.  
  
  
By the Hist - fate had really smiled on him this day! He thought he was going to end up dead, for sure, after the bodyguard of that fat human money-bags had gotten all upset over his command to hand over the valuables, and had run him through with a blade. But it looked that this foolish little child was going to bring him back from the slimy clutches of oblivion - and maybe provide him a decent meal ticket, too! The thing did not look like she had much on her - dressed in a bunch of plain rags, with no expensive trinkets on her scrawny little neck, and no rings he could pry off... But that sword of hers - forged out of flawless steel, with perfectly straight outlines and a bright metallic glint that made his mouth water - oh yes, it could very well fetch a passable price. Something to make up for that disgrace of a hold-up that almost cost him his scaly hide.   
  
And to make it extra fun, he was going to make her bleed like her fellow smooth-skin had made him... For fun - and as a precaution, too: there was no telling if those damn hold guards weren't still pursuing him, and that the land-strider wouldn't rat him out if they crossed paths.   
  
Something was telling him that getting rid of the girl was going to be easy. The little thing looked weak like a boiled shrimp (and just as pink, too) - whatever fool had decided to entrust her with this blade, had obviously chosen wrong.   
  
The Argonian flicked his forked tongue across his lips, his eyes burning into the coveted blade, which the girl had laid down onto the moss so that it would not get into her way - while his fingers raced stealthily along his side, searching for the strap that kept his trusty dagger fastened to his belt.  
  
With a soft, musical tingle, the glow of the spell went out, and the little land-strider clapped her hands together with a satisfied grin, surveying the fruit of her labours.  
  
'Better?' she asked, in a breathless, girly voice. 'I tried as hard as I could!'  
  
'Much better, thank you...' the Argonian hissed, pushing himself up on his arms and sucking in his stomach  and then puffing it out again to check for any loose seams in his flesh.  
  
Well, the girl seemed to have patched him up quite nicely, he said to himself - merely stating a fact, his heart unsoftened by even the slightest hint at gratitude. He knew, in theory, that he should feel some sort of... fondness towards the land-strider for saving him; but he did not. She was a tool - a ladder he had used to climb out the pit of death and no longer needed. Now that he was well and whole again, there was no point in wasting time on idle philosophic musings - he might as well go ahead and prick a hole in her like in a wine flask, and make off with the loot.   
  
Inch by inch, he shifted closer to her, his rattling breath scorching her face - which suddenly grew ghastly pale, trembling pink lips parting in a small, questioning 'o'. The land-strider grew tense, her pupils shrinking in fear, as the scale-skin almost pressed his snout against her upturned, sniffling nose, and drew his lips apart in a fanged, malevolent leer. So, she could sense what he was about to do - like a lamb senses that the butcher is going to gut it. Well, the world was made out of lambs and butchers, after all - and he sure as Oblivion was not going to grow a heap of fleece over his scales and start bleating. The little human was much better suited for it.  
  
Paralyzed by the cold, venomous glare of two yellow eyes, the little Nord was unable to move a muscle - she did not even attempt to fight back as the Argonian lurched forward and, whipping out his dagger, plunged it into her chest.  
  
  
The pain shattered the whole world around her, like a dazzling lightning strike. The colours, which her eyes had feasted upon but had an hours ago, faded away, replaced by a burning, throbbing whiteness. The piercing light stung her eyes, branded itself into her chest, filled her body till she could no longer breathe... But just as she thought her heart would burst, squashed by the burden of overwhelming whiteness, the angry glare grew softer, darkening to a soft, velvety grey - the shade of Dunmeri skin.  
  
The ashen spot floated before her eyes, quivering and gradually changing shape, its contours becoming sharper and darker lines crisscrossing its surface, slowly outlining the familiar angular facial features. A long, hooked nose; jutting brow ridges; and curious scarring above the eyes. Then, the picture was completed by a bold stroke of crimson, adding a mane of hair, with two stubborn strand dancing over the forehead, and a pair of concerned eyes.  
  
'Nels...'  
  
She had no strength to speak aloud - but she knew he heard her, because the next moment she heard his voice echo through her head,  
  
'Really, child? Can't you go a day without having a near-death experience? You should be lucky I didn't stray too far from that bridge where we first met! How could you let that lizard back-stab you?! Or rather, boob-stab you...'  
  
Her stone-cold, twisted lips remained frozen in a grimace of pain - but her mind rang with an inaudible embarrassed giggle.  
  
'That's no laughing matter!' Nels cried out indignantly. 'What happened to being brave and fighting back?! I have been watching you - you have been having some wicked character development!'  
  
A tiny, crystal-clear droplet crawled across the snowy slope of Sveta's cheek - and deep within the icy prison of her body, her voice whimpered squeakily,  
  
'I was... I was too surprised... I knew he would do this - I saw it in his eyes... But till the very last moment, I refused to believe that he would... He would actually... I mean, I had just healed him...'  
  
Nels sighed.  
  
'I get it, I get it... Too pure of heart to grasp the concept of betrayal. All right, let me clean up your mess - but don't get too dependent on me! You are not a Dunmer - you can't have me at your beck and call!'.  
  
'What are you going to do?' Sveta asked, her unheard voice both worried and curious.  
  
Nels' scowl gradually softened, and he gave his near-death-experience-prone descendant a meaningful wink.  
  
'This little chat of ours did not take as long as you might think,' he said. 'The lizard is still preparing for a second strike - he plans to finish you off, the son of a nix! But I am going to give him a little show, in the style of your dashing lover!'  
  
'He is not my lover!' Sveta protested, flustered. 'All we did was kiss... A couple of times... A few times... A lot... If - if you count the kisses on the hand... He kisses my hands whenever he apologizes for yelling at me - and he yells kinda often...'  
  
But Nels was not listening.  
  
  
  
Oh, xhuth! He had missed the land-strider's heart! She was still breathing - he could see her bloodied chest heave, as she lay on the ground, where he had tossed her after she had toppled over him, smearing spurts of hot, sticky crimson all over his scales. Maybe he should grab her sword and give it a little test? Stop her from squirming - and make her part of a story he was going to tell the potential buyers, praising the blade's sharpness...  
  
In one swift, fluid movement, the Argonian snatched the sword from the ground and, giving his wrist a casual twirl, prepared to bring the weapon down and cleave the wriggling little smooth-skin in half... But what came next made him let go of the sword, allowing it to sink back into the moss with a small 'plop!'.  
  
He was in mid-swing when the ground below his feet rumbled, as those shaken by one of the earthquakes that sometimes ripple beneath the rocky soil of Eastmarch - and from underneath it, a tall, intimidating figure rose, cloaked in raging flames, which circles and slithered along the figure's outlines like a serpents, shaping the contours of a head with knife-shaped pointed ears, and of two legs, spread wide apart in a menacing stance - and of two arms, stretching forward, ready to lock the scale-skin's neck in their stinging grip, and to melt off his scales...  
  
With a shrill 'Eeek!', the Argonian leapt back, coughing scrapingly and crossing his arms in front of his face. The flaming figure lingered, turning its head to glance at the limp form of the little Nord, sprawled across the mossy ground, and fixing its glare on the scale-skin again, two scorching orbs swirling where its eyes should have been.  
  
The Argonian decided to take advantage of this moment of hesitation, and sped off into the wilds, arms flapping, tail slashing at the air, and tongue nigh on hanging over his shoulder. The fiery apparition glided a few steps after him, but then, waved its arm in resignation and floated down to the wounded Nord, its golden glow slowly growing fainter and fainter, till it went out all together, leaving behind a wisp of smoke, shaped like a lanky, long-legged elf in an oversized cuirass over a shirt with puffed sleeves; his hair drooping down like a curtain, he leaned over the girl, pressing his faded lips against her forehead.  
  
'I am sorry, little one,' his whisper rustled in Sveta's ear. 'I would have chased the scoundrel down and made his eyes pop with heat - but I cannot remain by your side this long... I feel my new home calling me - I have to return...'  
  
'Will I follow you?' Sveta asked him fearfully - once again, without parting her lips. 'Is it finally... time? Please - please don't be offended... But I want to stay here... with Athis...'  
  
'Stop talking nonsense!' Nels scolded her, as he soared away from the little Nord's body, carried upwards by some invisible force. 'I am not offended! And it is completely in your power to stay! Your left hand is resting right over your wound - all you have to do is cast that trusty spell of yours!'  
  
'But... But I am to weak... I won't manage...'  
  
Sveta's inner voice was now little more than a faltering, fleeting though, barely comprehensible even to her own self - and so was Nels'. He was hovering high above her now, the blurred outlines of his figure merging with the feather-like tufts of clouds in the sky - and she guessed rather than heard what he was trying to tell her.  
  
'For the risk of sounding cheesy: remember who you are...'  
  
With those cryptic words, the friendly ancestral spirit dissolved into thin air, leaving Sveta to mull over his farewell message.  
  
Remember who you are... What was that supposed to mean? How was she supposed to remember when her life force was draining away from her, in a steady ruby stream, and the world was yet again filling with a blinding white glow, which was going to  swallow her whole, to melt her away, till nothing remained but a ghostly shadow...  
  
And then, just as the white glare began closing in, she remembered. She remembered what Nels had shown her when they last talked, sitting side by side on a bridge between worlds, dangling their feet over a bottomless void... She remembered the golden webbed wings behind her back, which, as the ancestor ghost explained to her, held the key to her purpose in this world. To her true self. Summoning the last remnants of concentration to control her dazed mind, she ordered herself to imagine those wings. To picture them, spreading majestically through the air, burning with a steady flame, comforting as the flow of hearth fire in the darkness of the night...  
  
And as she mentally drew back her shoulders and gave her wings a test flap - she felt a sudden surge of strength stir within her, coursing through her veins like the lava of a wakening volcano. She had had no idea that there was such a force lying dormant within her... though she had sensed hints at its presence a few times - when speaking that ancient word she had read on the wall in Bleak Falls Barrow. But this - this was nothing compared to what she was feeling right now. The unknown powerful entity that had been living concealed in her fluttering little heart was now finally showing itself jn its full glory. Suddenly, Sveta knew that the treacherous lizard had been no match for her; that it would take a joor like him far more than a mere dagger slice to slay her (a joor? what was a joor? she had to be delirious). She could close the wound he had inflicted - and by the gods, she would close it! Using her... her lah. Whatever that meant.  
  
Slowly, the fingers of Sveta's cold, marble-like hand, which were just barely brushing against the deep crimson cut in her chest, moved, the tip of each blooming with a tiny spark of a light, which made the nails resemble droplets of amber held against the sun. The sparks swelled in size, and their star-like rays sank into the wet, hot, red-tinted darkness, purging it - till the wound was no more, and life came flooding back into Sveta's body, like a river floods back into its banks after a drought, healing the flaking cracks in its dried-up bed.  
  
With a tremendous gasp (not unlike the one she had made after Nels brought her back from the spirit crossroads for the first time), the young Nord threw open her eyes and jolted into a sitting pose - only to find another pair of eyes, staring straight into hers. Small, dark-brown, barely visible beneath heavy folds of fur. The eyes of a bear.  
  
  
Seconds trickled by, excruciatingly slow, as the great beast regarded the little human before it with barely suppressed, feral hostility burning in the depths of its unblinking glare. Not daring to move - to breathe even, lest she provoke the creature - Sveta stared back at the bear, wondering in silent desperation whether Nels' interference had been in vain. Talk about frying pans and fire... It would be so painfully unfair if she did all that wing-flapping and self-healing just to be mauled by a wilderness beast.  
  
Grunting hoarsely and inclining its head to the side, the bear sniffed at the air, deciphering Sveta's scent like a scholar deciphers an ancient text in some long-forgotten tongue. And the longer the beast studied its surroundings, the less terrified of it Sveta became - in fact, she was beginning to feel concerned about the bear than about her own safety. The poor creature looked... troubled. Yes, that was the word. As though it had lost something very dear to it, and was making futile attempts to find it. Hazarding a wild guess, Sveta assumed that this was a she-bear, a mother in search for her cub.  
  
And moments later, her theory was confirmed. For the wilds rang with a shrill, slightly hoarse scream - sounding almost like the frantic cry of a human child, a boy with his voice breaking. The mother bear lifted herself to her hind paws, casting a dense dark shadow over Sveta and towering above ground like an ancient Nordic monument. Her front paws were crossed over her furry chest, as though the sound of her baby in pain made her heart pace quicken.  
  
The cry repeated - even louder, cracking with an echo of what could have been suppressed tears. It was coming from the direction of the high road, which Sveta was heading towards and which Athis and Gilfre had, doubtlessly, already reached. Perhaps the little bear, driven by childish curiosity, had strayed too far from his mother and ran into some not-too-friendly travellers?..  
  
The mother pricked up her tiny, soft ears, taking heavy, prolonged breaths of air, in a hurry to flip through all the pages of the book of scents and to deduce what had happened to the little one. Then, she brought down her front paws with a sound that resembled a deafening thunder clap - and charged off towards the road, carrying her furry bulk forward with unexpected grace and speed, and calling back to her cub with a roar that sounded as though it tore its way out of the very core of her heart... the core that had to be bleeding.  
  
It must have been an awfully foolish thing to do - in fact, she was almost sure it was - but Sveta could not help herself. A few moments after the mother bear dashed to her baby's rescue, the little human staggered to her feet and trotted off after her.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Lucius Tarquinius the Third was most dissatisfied. Not only had he been torn out of the warm, cozy safety of his study, forced to part with his abundantly laden feast table and collection of rare wines, and kicked right into the snowy jaws of the horrid Skyrim wilds - but this idiot boy, who was supposed to be guiding and guarding him, had managed to lose his way!  
  
They were supposed to be heading to Windhelm, on an inspection to the local branch of the East Empire Company (surprise inspection, blast it, which meant he was not allowed to use his official entourage, making do with one measly little horse instead of his comfortable carriage) - but so far, as far as Tarquinius was concerned, they had been doing anything but. The incompetent buffoon had been leading him in endless circles, of varying diametre, eventually somehow steering them right into the claws of some highway... highway lizard. At least, the imbecile proved capable of wielding his government-issued sword, and shoved it into the scaly blighter's gut like the filthy thing deserved - thus, effectively saving his employer's valuables... But this made Tarquinius only slightly less peeved.  
  
They were still hopelessly lost, in a land teeming with thieves, wild Stormcloaks, rabid vermin, and the Eight alone knew what else.  
  
'For the thousandth time, boy,' the worthy Empire Company official raged, clenching his fingers tightly round the reins of his steed, his well-nourished chins quivering in ire. 'Do you, or do you not, know how we can get back to the highway?'  
  
At first, the only response he received was a most annoying panting noise. He supposed it was because, unlike his majestic (and very delicate) self, the guard had to be travelling on foot... But still, it was no excuse to be so rude.  
  
Though the dunderhead did deign to give an answer, eventually.  
  
'I... I'm not certain, serjo...' he wheezed. 'Maybe we should ask them?'  
  
With that, he pointed ahead, at the (most likely savage) man and woman that were steadily working their way uphill a little way off.  
  
Tarquinius curled his full, fleshy red lips in disgust. Even at this distance, it did not take long that those two were commoners of the most unsavoury sort. The woman, though most likely one of his own kin, was dressed in a shabby, abhorrently plain dress, with her hair loose snd flapping in the wind like some rags on a clothes line - and the man... well, the man was a Dunmer. Fierce, barely covered by some kind of primitive armour, and with ugly warpaint smeared all over his face. In between them they were carrying a stretcher, laden with a bundle of furs, which stirred from time to time, as though they were transporting some sick animal. A ghastly sight, to be sure.  
  
'Must we come into contact with this riffraff?' Tarquinius asked with deliberate disdain. 'That elven barbarian might not even know Cyrodiilic'.  
  
'We won't know until we find out, will we, serjo?' the guard said silkily. 'They might help us break this loop of wandering around'.  
'Well, if you put it that way...' Tarquinius pouted. For all his stupidity, that boy knew how to manipulate him by hitting a sore spot. 'Let me do the talking, then. They might prove more cooperative if they are in awe of my authority'.  
  
The guard bowed in silent agreement (ah, finally some subordination!), and Tarquinius steered his mount towards the pair of savages. As he approached, the guard trudging submissively in his wake, he involuntarily (completely involuntarily! He couldn't care less about the affairs of the plebes) overheard a snatch of a conversation.  
  
'So, you and Torvar are really fast friends, aren't you?' the woman asked, snorting and wiping her eyes after what must have been a really undignified hearty laugh.  
  
'I... I suppose,' the elf replied slowly. 'I certainly can't imagine myself without him stumbling about at my side, ruining serious moments with his jokes and gorging himself on mead whenever he has the chance.'  
  
She smiled - and then said, in a slightly sheepish tone,  
  
'Sorry I got mad with little Sveta like that. I - i really can't explain it, there is this part of me that cares about nothing else but seeing Torvar cured... Which is odd, because we are almost complete strangers'.  
  
'Sveta and I once were complete strangers, as well,' the elf said quietly - and added, raising his voice, 'And apology accepted'.  
  
At this point, Tarquinius ran out of patience. He let out a loud, spluttering cough to draw the peasants' attention, and drawled pompously,  
  
'Begging your pardon - I am an official representative of the East Empire Company, and I require information as to the whereabouts of the most road-like infrastructure?'  
  
'You mean the highway?' the elf cut him short sharply (a savage. He knew as much). 'It's not far from here. We are heading there ourselves'.  
  
Oh perfect. Just peachy. Company was the last thing he was asking for - especially the company of such marginal elements as these two. He would have spurred his horse and outgalloped them if he could - but he had to make sure that his useless guard kept up, somehow... So he was forced to endure the presence of these barbarians and their squirming burden at his side - and to make matters worse, the elf kept looking him and his horse over with those red demon eyes... In a way that made his stomach gurgle uncomfortably.  
  
When they finally achieved what Tarquinius had already deemed impossible, and stepped onto the loosened cobblestones of the mushy dirt track that the locals apparently called a highway - the elf spoke, directly, bluntly, in a manner that made Tarquinius shudder in outrage, his ample forms billowing underneath his embroidered jerkin.  
  
'Sera - will you agree... to let us borrow your horse?'  
  
'Excuse me?' Tarquinius asked shrilly, stiffening in his saddle.  
  
Really, the nerve of those peasants! This steed was a personal gift from Victoria Vicci, the cousin of the Emperor himself! Granted, she did say that it was 'the only beast in Skyrim whose back won't snap in two under the weight of your fat arse' - but it was still a sign of attention from the great and good!  
  
In the meanwhile, the ragged woman exchanged an eager glance with the Dunmer, and blurted out,  
  
'Oh yes, serjo - you would be doing us a great service! Our friend,' she nodded at the hideous fur bundle, 'Is sick, and we have to get him to the Temple of Kynareth in Whiterun as fast as possible. We are trying to make it on foot, but a horse would definitely save time... And his life! Sadly, we don't have much money on us at the moment - but we will find a way to repay you...'  
  
'Out of the question!' Tarquinius spat, sending a small drizzle raining upon the woman's head. 'I am not letting you peasants as much as touching a hair on my fine, thoroughbred...'  
  
He would have gladly gone on and on with his tirade - but before he could give proper flesh to his majestic thoughts, they were joined by yet another wild interloper... This time, of the four-legged and furry variety.  
  
A small, dark-brown creature - a wild bear cub, as far as he could tell - had sauntered into the middle of the road, bold as brass, and froze, mouth open in a ludicrous imitation of a human grin, eyes slanting together to its nose, focusing on a bright-blue butterfly that had decided to take a sunbath on the beastling's snout.  
  
The sight of this walking furball made Tarquinius gag.  
  
'Vermin!' he screeched, his voice rising to a pitch that resembled a woman's - and then, looked down at the guard, his eyes bulging, and ordered in panic,  
  
'Kill it! Killitkillitkillit!'  
  
The elf rushed forward, catching the reins with his hand.  
  
'What has gotten into you?' he asked, frowning. 'The cub has done you no harm! It will leave you be if you do!'  
  
Tarquinius paid no heed to him. If that grey-skinned barbarian though he was going to just sit there and let this flea-ridden critter attack him and possibly infect him with some vile disease... Well, then he was as dense as he looked. Leave him be - poppycock! Those wild animals were like Stormcloaks; driven by primal, aggressive instincts, and deserving nothing less than being put down.  
  
'Don't listen to the elf!' he barked, addressing his guard, who apparently had dared to hesitate. 'Kill the thing!'  
  
With one last tentative look over his shoulder, the boy bared his sword and approached the creature, which was far too preoccupied with its bitterly to notice anything - not until the steel flashed through the air, and sank into its mangy fur, making the little insect flutter away.  
  
The creature made a most annoying, ear-splitting noise, which had to signify that it was about to die - but it stubbornly refused to do so, instead rolling around and clawing at the ground in pain. Why, oh why did the guard have to be so incompetent!  
  
The boy loomed over the creature to strike it again (which made it squeal with a renewed force) - but the accursed elf pounced at him from behind  and jerked the sword out of his hand.  
  
'Thank the Three Sveta didn't see this,' he muttered through his teeth, dancing ridiculously on the spot to keep the weapon out of the guard's reach. 'It would break her sweet little heart...'  
  
Once again, Tarquinius was about to express his firm standpoint on the matter of hearts and Svetas (whoever that was) - but was most rudely interrupted... By a wild, enraged roar, rushing at them from the wilds like an approaching thunderstorm.  
  
'That would be the little one's mother,' the elf said darkly. 'She is coming for you, human'.


End file.
